


Lost

by Semebay



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 07:44:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 53,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2301950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semebay/pseuds/Semebay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England was a land of peace, until the threat of war hung overhead. The heir to the Kirkland line disappears, and a hero from America stumbles onto a strange sight in a forest in England.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in April 2010

England was a beautiful place. There may not have been many mountains to match the beauty of the lands in the east, but the thriving forests and lush fields drew many into the cities and town nestled within them. People laughed and danced, animals were driven from pasture to pasture to graze, and the country was peaceful under their royal family.

 

Of course, the peace was simply a cover for the inevitable future of carnage and chaos of the coming years. The land of the Danes across the sea wasn't in poor condition. Their lands rivalled those of England, but they were a fighting people. They wanted to conquer and rule their way across the globe, and the people of England were unlucky enough for their shores to be within sight.

 

While the people of England were unaware of the threat across the shores, the royal family was already feeling the pressure. There were spies within their closest circles, and executions were performed in the strictest secrecy. The royal family was fighting their attackers, waging a silent war against the power of the Danes. The public was unaware of the turmoil within their upper echelons.

 

At least, they were until the youngest son and heir to the throne went missing. At first, it wasn't noticed. The castle had fallen silent, but the people simply took it as a sign that quiet preparations for the second eldest's birthday were under way. They hadn't noticed that the young Kirkland was not frequenting the town any more. If anything, they noticed that the town was slightly quieter, and the local pub had an excess of beer that had never been there before.

 

Then the cavalry had ridden out, and it became obvious who was missing. The combative youth was gone, and it became obvious that there was a tense, almost hostile cloud hovering over the villages and towns. The threat of the Danes loomed over them, and mothers ushered their children inside during the days, letting their husbands protect the home from the invasion that everyone felt was sure to come. Villages on the eastern coast were abandoned as their people moved inward, and knights swept through the land on a mission, while archers and other soldiers occupied the abandoned villages in preparation for an invasion.

 

Months passed, cavalries came and went, and the people were afraid.

 

When would the invasion begin?

 

And where was their prince?


	2. Chapter 2

Alfred Jones had never fought a dragon. He had never battled roaring demons upon the peak of a treacherous mountain, nor had he battled an evil wizard to save a damsel in distress. However, he _had_ battled thieves and bandits to protect the people of America, the land south of the great England, beyond the frigid waters of the great sea. He had fought in the guard in his country's capital, among the greatest fighters of his land, against the rebelling forces that had seen fit to set flame to their fine country. He had fought alongside his countrymen, his nerves of steel earning praise from his commanders and political leaders, and his good-natured attitude even gaining the favor of men and women alike.

 

He was a hero. Everyone said so. He embraced the idea of heroism; he had battled evil goats as a child, dodging their horns and hopping on their backs to challenge his brother to a duel, much like the knights of old. They would joust with sticks and wooden swords, beating each other until the time before the sun went down, and they would go to bed. He would dream of damsels in distress, and riding away into the sunset with a beautiful woman nestled between his arms on the back of his great steed, her hair fluttering in the calm breezes on the shore of America, the fine strands caressing his jaw as her head rested against his collarbone.

 

Of course, time passed, and that vision from his childhood would likely never come to fruition.

 

He had left America. Her bright shores had faded into the distance soon after he had turned eighteen and boarded a ship to England. He had heard about the country's vast plains, and while he knew they could never compare to those of his homeland, he had wanted to see it. He had  _needed_ to see it. He hadn't felt truly needed in America, and while leaving family was difficult, he hadn't felt as though he were betraying his country. He was just following his heart.

 

He travelled light. He had exchanged his currency and boarded a ship with his faithful horse (a bay by the name “Comanche”) and some clothes. He had a sword and scabbard affixed to one side of the saddle, while he kept a pistol under his long jacket, safely tucked into his belt. None of the crew members had asked questions as he joked with his fellow passengers and helped with the heavy work, though they did question why he had brought along “that crazy nag,” considering the horse tried to bite anyone that neared it.

 

He had left them at the docks when they had landed, leading his horse through the city and letting it adjust to the land after the long voyage on the sea. He had waved at the people passing by, and stopped briefly to buy a map from one of the general stores. There had been no questions, but there had been odd looks when they heard his accent. Some had asked his name, and he had shrugged when he had been asked about his trade.

 

Fours hours at a brisk pace and he would be in the next town, where he could get a room in an inn. The general store owner had marked out the inns with stables, and luckily there were stables in most major towns. He would have to camp out occasionally, but he really  _did_ like sleeping out in the air. He wondered if the stars in England were the same stars that sparkled above America, and knew that someday he would have to find out. He eagerly waited for that time. 

 

The ride to the next town took just over four hours (as he had predicted), and Alfred spent his first night in England drinking with the people of the town. Comanche had been settled in the stable, a warning left to the hands that he loved to greet people with his teeth, and Alfred had gone to the local pub to drink. It had been fun, watching the barmaids manuever through the crowds with full mugs of ale, the golden liquid and the foam dripping over the sides and onto the ground. After an hour, the barmaid was accompanied by one of the tenders, to protect her “virtue” from the customers that were beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol.

 

Alfred just watched and grinned, then he continued drinking, enough to sustain him while he finally went to bed. He left the inn the next morning, food in his saddle bags and his stomach full of breakfast.

 

England was a quiet place. He rode through the lands gleefully, Comanche's feet dancing atop the swaying grass, the birds chirping above. He met few other travellers, though there were plenty of bandits that he had defeated and dragged along to the nearest town, to the nearest person that could deal with their unruliness. He turned nineteen in a small pub in a town called Farminton, and it was soon after that his adventures in England really began, after a time of turmoil and a looming war.

 

He had not failed to miss the soldiers that rode about, sweeping through the towns and villages. He passed cavalries on horseback, watched the knights that occupied the towns by the shore. He had heard about the missing prince, and wondered at how quickly order could fall to chaos. People panicked. What would they do, when the heir to the throne was missing? It appeared that the enemy didn't have him, as the Danes were still hunting for their target while warring with the older members of the family.

 

Alfred had avoided conflict as best as he could. He still protected himself and villages from the disgusting bandits that made their living through looting every house, and through his travels he could hear the discontent, and the fear. He could hear the tremble in the voices of women and children alike, and he could also hear the worry and doubt in the men.

 

For weeks, the country was in fear. For weeks, he travelled alone, Comanche keeping his head held high and his steps light. And for weeks, the search for the prince continued, the knights and cavalry relentless in their efforts.

 

It was five weeks after the prince's disappearance that Alfred's life changed.

 

“Hold tight, an' I'll get the fire up and going,” Alfred said loudly as he stripped the tack from Comanche's body. The horse snorted at him and rubbed its nose against the tree it was tied to, trying to reach that sweet spot that Alfred had found so long ago. Alfred let him go at it, feeling that the distraction would keep the stallion out of his hair while he set up camp.

 

The bed roll was the first thing laid out on the ground, mere feet from the stone ring that he had set up to contain the fire. He carefully set out a small package of salted meat that he had grabbed at the last town, and then he lit the branches within the ring. He hummed as he did so, pulling the meat from the package and setting it on a rock where it could collect the heat and begin to cook.

 

Once he felt that the meat was situated properly, he climbed to his feet and walked over to Comanche. The horse bobbed his head and angled his eyes to watch him approach, and Alfred loosened the rope to let him wander. It was only then that he felt the eyes watching him from the depths of the forest around him.

 

Alfred remained in control. He wasn't sure what to make of this feeling. While the feeling of being watched made his hair stand on end, and while it may feel ominous, it didn't feel hostile. If anything, it was almost curious. Like a small animal. He thought of a dog, or something similar, and had half a mind to turn and look for it. Of course, he didn't really want to leave his campfire to hunt down a small animal, so he simply sat back beside the fire and watched it burn.

 

The feeling of being watched didn't leave him as he waited for the meat to cook, and he found himself scanning the trees and bushes for anything that seemed out of place. Nothing jumped out at him, and he turned over the meat on the rock. Then he reached into his bag and pulled out a couple small sticks, so that he could stake the meat and put it over the fire. The feeling of being watched never left him, and he looked around again, putting the sticks down next to the stone with the meat.

 

As he scanned the trees around him, something yellow caught his eye. It was faint, just a small spot. He wasn't sure why he noticed it, and he stared at it, narrowing his eyes in thought. It took him a moment to realize what he was looking at, and then his mouth dropped open. At the same time, the eyes that he had been staring at in the bushes bolted, and the small child was running away from him.

 

Alfred wasn't sure what he was supposed to do, but the thought of a small child in the forest, _alone_ , spurred him into action. He ran after the child, cutting through the trees and shoving hanging branches out of his face. He jumped over a log, trying to keep the child in sight.

 

“H-hey! Stop running!” Alfred shouted, ducking down below a hanging branch. He had to admit, the kid was a fast runner, and he was small. It was perfect for this kind of location, and if Alfred were a weak runner, he would have lost him.

 

But Alfred was quick to catch up. He finally overcame the panting child, and he swept him up into his arms. The child immediately started to beat at him with flailing arms, his face scrunched up and his mouth opening and closing with enraged squeals.

 

“Who-whoa! It's alright! I'm just- _stop hitting me_ -I'm just trying to help!”

 

The child didn't stop trying to bludgeon him, and Alfred pinned him to his chest. The child was forced to stop moving, and a tense silence fell over them. The child breathed heavily into Alfred's battered jacket, short gasping breaths that showed how hard he had run to escape the man that had caught him.

 

“Where're you from?” Alfred muttered, and after a few minutes, he loosened his grip on the child. “There aren't any villages around here.” It was at that point that Alfred finally managed to look at the child in his arms. He didn't like what he saw.

 

The child was thin. The rags on him (they were too torn and tattered to be called clothes) hung loosely over his tiny frame, and his body was obviously malnourished. His face, which should have been plump like every youth, was sunken and dirty, with grime coating the boy's cheeks and forehead. Two lines had been formed, making a trail from his eyes to his chin, and Alfred found himself feeling sick.

 

How long had the child been lost in the woods?

 

“We have to get you something to eat,” Alfred muttered, and he turned back carefully. Feeling the child's tiny figure in his arms, he felt guilty for grabbing him so suddenly. He was sure it must have hurt. “You like beef? I bought some from the store. It's over there, cooking. Or, y'know, I have crackers! You like crackers? I have bread, too!”

 

The child never answered him, and Alfred found that he was burrowing into his coat to escape the cold. His face was pressed against his chest, his fingers twisted into his shirt. Alfred wasn't sure what to do about the new...  _problem_ . Anyone else would've left him to die in the forest, but he could never bring himself to abandon someone like that. Especially a child.

 

The child was unwilling to remove himself from Alfred's coat when he sat, so Alfred had to work extra hard not to jostle him as he pushed the meat onto the sticks and then hung them in the fire. He then dug through his bags, trying to find crackers and bread for the child, ignoring the horse that was looking at him pointedly with an expression that clearly said “I'm not carrying another fucking human on my back.”

 

“Here,” Alfred said when he finally found a small package of crackers in his bag. He held it next to the child still attached to his chest, waving it and trying to entice the boy into letting go of his shirt and using his hand to grab the snacks instead. When that didn't work, he resorted to pressing the cracker against the child's lips.

 

The child latched on immediately, chewing on the food while still refusing to release Alfred's shirt. Alfred used his free hand to turn the meat, then he rummaged through his bag again, searching for the blanket he knew was there. His fingers touched it and he slowly pulled it out, some other cooking supplies falling out when he finally freed it. He carefully wrapped it around the boy's shoulders, careful not to get it in the fire, and the boy finally hesitantly released Alfred's clothing. Instead, the boy fisted his hands into the blanket and pulled it tightly around him. He made a small sound, deep in his throat and rather high-pitched, and Alfred swallowed.

 

Didn't most five-year-olds talk?

 

“What's your name?” Alfred asked him. The child blinked at him, and Alfred finally noticed how large his eyebrows were. He was surprised he had missed them before, especially since he had been staring at the boy's eyes for a few minutes before he had first taken off. The boy obviously knew how to use them; he was now watching Alfred suspiciously, the brows lowered over his green eyes as he glowered.

 

“I'll find out,” Alfred promised when the boy didn't answer his question. “We'll find your home and everything. See, I'm a great hero from America! You've probably never heard of it, but that's alright! I'll protect you, like...” Alfred rolled his eyes back in thought. “Like a big brother or something! How's that sound?”

 

The child stared at him for a moment, then looked towards Alfred's bag. Alfred took that as a cue to hand him another cracker, and the boy ate it in wonder, relishing the taste of the bland snack. Alfred pulled the sticks from the fire and tore a piece of meat off, holding it out to the child. The boy took it without a thought, popping it in his mouth and chewing vigorously.

 

“Careful! Don't choke!” Alfred laughed, but he could feel himself dying a little inside.

 

How long had it been since the child had last eaten? And how long had he been alone?

 

“Everything's gonna be alright,” Alfred mumbled as he handed another piece of meat to the child. He watched as the child rolled it around in his mouth, his suspicious attitude giving way to pure bliss. “I'm gonna take care of you. Promise.”


	3. Chapter 3

The boy never made a sound that night. He kept a tight hold on Alfred's blanket, his large green eyes watching every move that Alfred made. In the coming darkness, he began to shiver violently, and eventually refused the crackers and meat that Alfred offered him. He drank little water, and instead stared into the flames of the fire while Alfred finished eating his supper.

 

“You want more to eat?” Alfred asked, but the child simply continued to shiver by the fire, not looking back while Alfred arranged the blankets on his bedroll. Alfred pulled off his jacket and set it up by his discarded boots, and he pulled the blankets over him. He stretched his arms out, smiling at the boy. “Tired?”

 

The boy watched him suspiciously, then slowly picked himself up and stumbled his way over, the blanket dragging in the dirt. Alfred caught him in his arms and rubbed his hands carefully over his back to try and warm him, his fingers feeling every ridge of his spine even through the dense material. He wondered how the child had been able to run away from him so quickly; adrenaline could only go so far.

 

The child eagerly crawled under Alfred's blankets, his shivering slowing slightly as he found more warmth. Alfred wasn't sure _what_ he was supposed to do, but he knew that he had to do something. The child before him was half-starved, neglected, scared and cold. Fighting bandits wouldn't make the child healthy and boisterous, yet that was what he could do.

 

Alfred tightened his grip on the child, and found that he had already fallen asleep. He ran his hand back up and down the child's spine, and he took a deep breath. Clothes. The boy needed clothes. He needed something that wasn't torn beyond repair. He also needed shoes, and a bath. And food. Food was the most obvious thing that he needed.

 

The child shifted slightly, his lips a pout even in sleep, and Alfred slowly shut his eyes. He would think more about it in the morning.

 

Morning came with the sounds of birds, crickets, and a very disgruntled horse. Alfred opened his eyes slowly, his arms cramped from the awkward position of holding a child, and he found himself looking into one of the nostrils of his horse.

 

Comanche was nudging him, searching for food or something to chew on. He stared groggily at him, and the memories of the night before slowly returned to him. He looked down to find the small child trembling in fear, his wide eyes locked on the great beast standing above them.

 

“It's just Comanche,” Alfred muttered, and the child glanced at him briefly before returning his eyes to the horse. Alfred raised one of his hands and brushed the horse lightly, making it snort and stomp away.

 

The child tried to hide under the blankets.

 

“It's alright,” Alfred grumbled, and he slowly sat up. He rotated his shoulders, working the kinks out and hearing the cracks in his back as he stretched. “Gonna make some breakfast, then we'll get going. Sound good?”

 

Of course the child didn't answer. He just sat back and stared as Alfred went to work, getting the fire going again and pulling more meat from his bag to cook. The boy munched on crackers while he waited, and Alfred decided that he would just talk to him until he could think of something better to do. So he told him about his plans to reach Ellis by noon, so that they could get clothes and food, as well as a room at the inn. He also asked about his name, where his family was, anything to try and get a reaction. Nothing worked beyond the tiny pieces of meat that he fed the child. The child obviously loved the feeling of having something of substance in his tiny stomach, after a long period where Alfred imagined he only ate berries.

 

“You like that?” Alfred asked when he finished packing his bedroll and shoved his blankets into the saddlebags. He had packed everything away and was waiting for the boy to finish chewing on the meat so that they could leave. “There's more in the next town. They have beds there, and a huge house for horses, and places to eat!”

 

The child didn't appear interested in anything that Alfred was saying. He had moved on to licking his fingers, and protested with indignant squeals when Alfred lifted him and plopped him on the front of the saddle.

 

“We have to get going,” Alfred told him when he swung up into the saddle. “Feels like a frost's coming. Can't afford to get sick, right?”

 

The child tugged on the horse's mane, and when Alfred gave a quick tap to the horse's side, they were moving. The boy gasped and grabbed for the saddle horn in front of him, and Alfred laughed. The child watched the terrain pass by, and jumped when Alfred clucked his tongue and prompted the horse to run faster.

 

It soon became apparent that it would be late afternoon, possibly evening before they reached Ellis. The child was not a great travel companion. He needed multiple bathroom breaks, and Alfred had to stop many times to pick berries and pull food out of the packs for him. The child had warmed up to him rather quickly, and while he really didn't care for Comanche (after the horse had grabbed the blanket he carried around and pulled it away), he was willing to let Alfred set him up on the saddle and hold him steady while they travelled.

 

The child really began to show his curiosity when they stepped foot into Ellis. The skies were becoming darker, and the child's head frantically spun back and forth as he tried to take in everything at once. “You like it?” Alfred asked him, and the child clung tighter to the saddle horn. Alfred swung himself down and left him in the saddle, one hand on the reins and the other holding the boy's leg and keeping him in the saddle. Alfred looked up at the blanket-covered form with the large eyes peeking from the depths of the material, and he decided that he first needed to get some clothes for the kid.

 

It didn't take long to find a tailor. Alfred left Comanche at the hitching post and plucked the boy from the saddle, holding him as he walked inside. The woman behind the counter looked up and frowned, letting go of a hem she had been mending.

 

“I'm guessing you need clothes,” she said, patting her hands on her dress and skirting around the counter. “His have been through the wringer, haven't they?”

 

“Yeah,” Alfred said, shifting his weight as the child buried his head into the crook of Alfred's neck. “He was out running around in the woods. Has anyone-”

 

“-reported a missing child?” The woman looked at him sympathetically, then reached out and lightly touched the boy's head. “If you found him running around in the woods, then his parents're probably gone. Bandits've been tearin' through the place lately. A lotta kids've been orphaned.” She stepped to the side and narrowed her eyes. “Y'know, he looks a lot like Kirkland.”

 

“Really?” Alfred hesitated. “Who was that again?”

 

The woman laughed, his voice like a bell as she flounced away and began to pick through stacks of clothes. “The royal family? The son went missing.”

 

“You think this is-”

 

“The son's in his twenties, I highly doubt he looks like he should be in diapers.” She laughed at him and pulled out a green shirt. “Arthur, his name was.”

 

The child perked up, and Alfred tilted his head. “Arthur?”

 

“He was the heir.” The woman dug through another pile which held various pairs of pants, most of them a cotton material. “He was a... _weird_ lad. Everyone thinks it was stress. He was fighting for th' throne, you know. His cousin wanted it, as did his older brother. Well, his older brother'll probably get it now.”

 

Alfred looked down at the child, who was chewing on his fingers and watching the woman closely. She held up a set of clothes, and Alfred nodded his head, hesitating when the boy started to babble.

 

“So what's 'is name?”

 

“Dunno,” Alfred muttered, and he turned Arthur so that he could look in his face. “He doesn't talk.”

 

“He's talking now,” the woman chuckled, and she waved the clothes in her hands. “These okay?”

 

“Those're great,” Alfred muttered, but he was paying more attention to the boy. “So what's your name?” he muttered, and the child babbled at him, his eyebrows narrowing over his large eyes. “Iggy?” The child glared at him. “Iggy it is, then!”

 

The woman cocked an eyebrow at him, her mouth twisted into a smile as she gathered together the clothes for the boy and wrapped them in paper. “You have a lot of experience with kids?”

 

Alfred grinned and began to dig through his pockets for coins. “Better. I _was_ a kid.”

 

The woman shook her head and held her hand out for the money. “I guess you're right. That is better.”

 

Alfred dropped the coins in her hand and collected the clothing. He walked back out to Comanche and popped Iggy up into the saddle, then untied the horse and led them towards the town's inn. Iggy babbled while they walked, and seemed quite content when Alfred handed the horse off to one of the stable hands. Alfred joked with the caretaker and was led to his room, where he promptly changed Iggy out of the rags and into a green shirt and brown cotton pants.

 

“Those feel good, little man?” Alfred grinned as he played with Iggy's hands, though he was rather unnerved by what the tailor had told him at the shop. What if Iggy had seen his parents die? It would explain why the kid never talked. Alfred let Iggy go and watched him wander the room, playing with the linens and Alfred's bags. When Iggy started chewing on the bed posts, he decided that it was likely time to take him for something to eat, lest he finish off the bed and leave Alfred with a hefty debt to make up.

 

Alfred was beginning to really like having Iggy around. Yeah, his questionable origins were kind of suspicious (and a little bit disconcerting), but he liked having company. After all, Comanche wasn't much of a talker. And he liked to bite people (of course at dinner, Iggy tried biting Alfred numerous times, so he and Comanche had that much in common). Iggy, on the other hand, was _fun_. They had spent barely a day together, but Iggy had personality, a personality that was endearing and fun, and would have been intimidating had he been an adult. Alfred could only imagine how he would grow up.

 

They ate dinner in a tavern down the road, some unidentifiable meat that the barmaid had given then. She had dropped a mug of ale on the table for Alfred, and a cup of milk that Iggy had immediately drained. When she had gotten him a refill, he had refused to drink it, suddenly turning red and picking at the meat and vegetables on the plate before him. Alfred tried to pull him into conversation; he failed miserably at it, but he did enjoy making the child listen to him. Even if Iggy would roll his tiny eyes and stuff one of the hard bread rolls into his mouth, forcing Alfred to reach forward and pop it back out before he could choke.

 

“I'm going to the capital,” Alfred told him eagerly as he tore apart the role that Iggy had his eyes on, handing him the smaller pieces. “I'm going to check out the sights and all that fun stuff. And I hunt, too. Get bounties for thieves. I can't with you around, but I have enough saved up for a while.” Alfred paused to take another whole roll out of the child's mouth, and Iggy pouted at him. He broke the roll into pieces and dropped them on the plate before him, an attempt to prevent the child from choking himself.

 

“I don't get how anyone could leave a kid like you parent-less in the woods,” Alfred mumbled as he picked at his plate with his fork, then popped a pepper into his mouth. “What's wrong with people? Why do they have t' attack mothers an' their kids?”

 

Iggy ignored his questions and chewed on the bread. Alfred wondered if he should try to stop him from eating too much, wondered if too much food after such neglect would be unhealthy, but he couldn't force himself to tear the content grin from the boy's face. Iggy looked so happy when he was eating. He didn't scowl or whine, except when it looked as though someone was going to take what he was interested in eating. He never put up a fuss, and became easier to handle. He didn't fight. He just relaxed, rolled the food around on his tongue, and then swallowed.

 

“You must've come from a really smart family,” Alfred mumbled, setting his elbow on the table and using it to prop up his chin. “Kinda funny like that. Cute, too.”

 

Iggy ignored him, and Alfred slowly took another bite of his food. It never took long to eat. He always finished his food, went to bed, and left at the first light. However, Iggy was already starting to change that. Alfred thought it would be rather nice to sleep in the next day. Heck, he didn't have to rush all the way to the capital. He could take his time, take Iggy sightseeing. Surely the kid hadn't seen a lot in his short life. He would start the next stage of his life with Alfred, and then they would see where it went from there.

 

Iggy was thoroughly enjoying the meal when the barmaid passed by, but then there was a crash. The barmaid had been caught unaware by a misplaced leg, and glass mugs flew everywhere. There were loud crashes as glass broke and a table was knocked over, and then people were cursing and stomping around. Iggy had jumped up and was sniffing, his entire body trembling violently as he looked around in alarm. Alfred stood and carefully gripped under his arms, lifting him from his spot and setting him back down in his lap, where Iggy immediately burrowed into his shirt to try and escape the chaos and disorder that was temporarily consuming the inside of the tavern.

 

“It's okay,” Alfred assured him, trying to coax him out of his shirt with a piece of bread. “She just tripped. You're alright.”

 

But Iggy would have none of it. He remained with his face pressed against Alfred's chest, his tiny body shaking with the fear, and Alfred had to pack up their dinners and start the journey back to the inn.

 

Alfred had booked a room with two beds, but it was obvious that Iggy wasn't willing to sleep alone. Alfred attempted to situate him in the other bed, but the boy had fallen out almost immediately and gone running to him. Alfred tried a second time, but that time Iggy managed to make his escape far more gracefully, and he had burrowed himself under the covers and up next to the warmth of the man from America.

 

He had given up on trying to separate them, and had let his eyes close, his arms wrapped loosely around the bony body. Sleep then took him, while he wondered what the future would hold for him and the little stranger. He dreamed of a hand touching his hair gently, but never saw the man that stood above his bed, looking down at him with worried eyes. He never heard the “Oh, dear,” from that man's lips, nor did he hear the sound of a blade digging into wood.

 

He just tightened his arms around the form that rested against him, dreaming of adventure and discovery.


	4. Chapter 4

Alfred woke late the next morning. He was surprised. He had always woken around the same time, like there was a timer within his body that deemed when it was appropriate to wake, eat, and go to sleep. He blinked when he woke, and looked towards the window by the foot of the bed. The sun wasn't all the way up in the sky, but it had been at least two hours since it had risen, and two hours since he was supposed to wake up.

 

But the bundle in his bed wasn't willing to wake up. When Alfred moved, Iggy followed him in his sleep, his little fists clenched tightly around his shirt so that when one moved, the other was dragged along. It took some time for Alfred to pry the little bugger's hands off, and then he grabbed at the pack by his bed and began to sort through clothes. A brown shirt and black pants for when Iggy woke up, and black pants and a blue shirt for him. He changed there, then looked back towards Iggy. He had to wake him up and get him ready to go. And they had to have some breakfast before they left.

 

“Hey, Iggy.” Alfred touched the child's shoulder, but the boy sighed and turned over in his sleep. “C'mon, Iggy. We have to get going. I wanna hit Bard tonight. They have this awesome inn, with a tavern right next door. Least, that's what the barmaid said last night.” When Iggy refused to open his eyes, Alfred picked him up and threw the covers back.

 

Iggy flailed as though his life depended on it. He gave little shrieks when Alfred began to tickle his stomach with a hand, his fingers bumping against ribs, and then Iggy was grabbing at blankets, scrambling away from him with giggles and trying to escape under the bed. Alfred dove down after him with a smile, and reached under the bed. He hesitated when his hand touched a sharp point in the floor, and then he lifted the blankets to look under.

 

Iggy was watching him from the depths of under-the-bed with a grin, his teeth seeming to shine in the darkness formed by the blankets around the bed. He didn't even notice the floor before him, that was scratched up and marked with what looked like a pentagram in a circle. Alfred brushed his hands along the newly-scratched pattern, flicking aside the wood dust from the grooves, and then he reached in and pulled Iggy out.

 

“Time t' get dressed and ready!” he said cheerfully. Iggy pouted while Alfred carted him around the room, picking up clothes and changing him without putting him down. Alfred was sure that putting him down would successfully end his attempts to change him, and Iggy was obviously rather peeved that his escape plans had been thwarted. “So, what d'you want for breakfast? I bet they have eggs!”

 

Alfred grabbed their things and shoved them into bags, then left the room behind. Iggy clung to his neck and turned his head back and forth, looking at the dark wooden walls and the patrons that roamed the halls. He couldn't keep his attention on one thing for more than a few seconds before he was searching for something else to gape at. He couldn't even keep his attention on his food during breakfast, and Alfred had to pack up most of it to feed him during the ride to Bard.

 

Iggy still hadn't warmed up to Comanche, and most of the nine-hour ride to Bard consisted of him babbling in a low voice. Alfred imagined that he was cursing the fact that he had to ride on a dirty horse that bit people, and the thought made him grin above Iggy's tousled blond hair. Comanche didn't give much fuss during the journey, either. The horse had come to accept the fact that the runt was sticking around, and that he would have to deal with having the child on his back, even when Alfred dismounted and walked beside him to give him a break.

 

“We probably shouldn't go back to Ellis again,” Alfred mused. “I don't like that inn. Looked like some weird people went through, with the symbols and everything.” Alfred kicked at a rock in the path, and Iggy looked down at him from where he was perched in the saddle. “Everyone's been paranoid since that Arthur guy disappeared. That's why the inn was so empty. Everyone's scared 'cause some bad people're trying to come over.” Alfred grinned and tapped his thumb to his chest. “But don't worry. _I'm_ a hero, so no one'll get you.”

 

Iggy didn't appear to care about Alfred's hero complex. He was looking around quickly, alarmed that they were leaving the openness of the plains for a heavily wooded trail that was surrounded by thick pines and darkness. Alfred continued talking, then looked up quickly when he heard an “oof!” Iggy had leaned over a bit too far, his tiny fingers reaching out for Alfred's shirt, and he tumbled off the horse and into Alfred's outstretched arms.

 

“Lonely?” Alfred laughed, and he stuffed the ends of the reins into his pocket so that he could hold onto Iggy while he walked. Comanche was pleased by the missing weight and there was an extra spring to his step. Iggy sighed contentedly and let his chin rest on Alfred's shoulder, while he watched the twisting trail disappear behind them. He mumbled into Alfred's ear, the nonsensical ramblings of a child that didn't know spoken language, and Alfred would ask him questions to answer in order to make himself appear more interested and a better listener than he was.

 

It was on that trail that they met a mysterious stranger with an ego that rivalled Alfred's own, possibly even surpassing it. The man stopped them on the trail, his red eyes glistening in the rays of light that managed to breach the leafy canopy above. Alfred wasn't sure what to say to the other when he asked directions, and he had opened up his map to gesture vaguely. He didn't know when the other had picked Iggy up from where Alfred had set him on the ground, claiming that he would be an “awesome big brother” and would make him an “awesome soldier” if he had the chance. All he knew was that he had to catch the falling child when the albino began to curse in another language, holding a bleeding finger and cursing “demon children” and their sharp teeth.

 

Iggy was quite content to snuggle in Alfred's arms, yawning and pressing his face into Alfred's shirt. Alfred attempted to apologize to the other despite the fact that the albino was obviously at fault, but the other would have none of it. He stormed away and refused further contact, cursing his ill luck and unlucky job. Alfred watched him leave, caught between calling out to him and taking care of the child in his arms. Of course Iggy won (he always would), and Alfred had to juggle him while he set his foot in the stirrup and swung himself up. Iggy fell asleep when Alfred pulled blankets from the pack, all while wondering if so much sleep was good for the boy.

 

Iggy slept most of the way to Bard. He was woken when Alfred swung down from the horse just miles outside the village, and Iggy immediately demanded a bathroom break, one that Alfred was all too willing to give. He guided him just off the path and turned around while he went, keeping his eyes on the horse that waited impatiently by the road. When Iggy finally finished, he wrapped his tiny arms around Alfred's leg and looked up, his bright green eyes filled with something Alfred was hesitant to describe. He wanted to say “love,” but “adoration” seemed far more appropriate in the current situation.

 

They returned to their ride and finished the journey to Bard, arriving as night was falling. Their horse was taken to a stable once more, and Alfred collected the key to their room before he dragged Iggy to the tavern. Again, they ate foods of questionable origin, but the conversation was interesting enough that Alfred didn't pay attention. Instead, Alfred listened to the rumors and gossip, and though he had distanced himself from the troubles of the land, he couldn't help but feel slight concern at what he was hearing.

 

England was being invaded. Yes, it was only a rumor, but the idea of invasion was scary. Especially the extent of the invasion. Only the best of the Danes were invading, their arrivals shrouded in complete secrecy. People claimed that the Danish prince had even come to search for the head of Kirkland, intending to present it to the royal family and scare them from their throne. Other countries had apparently joined with the Danes, wanting to take the coveted land of the English, and even they were sending their best under the cover of darkness.

 

With so many sides and conflicting parties, it would be impossible for England to remain at peace. And Alfred understood that he, as a foreign traveller, was in danger. Especially with a child in tow. He tightened his grip on Iggy's little hand, and the child looked up at him, confusion and concern evident in those large eyes.

 

“We should head out,” Alfred muttered, and he lifted the boy. Iggy let his legs hang down as Alfred moved him around, giggling once when Alfred's hand touched his stomach. He let himself be carried back into the inn, ogling at the patrons of the tavern as they passed, and then he started to reach out for things as he passed them. The wall, the pot of flowers, anything that he thought he would be able to wrap his tiny fingers around. He was unable to drag anything along with him, and finally he was set on the floor in their room. He looked around, and jumped when Alfred managed to force a different shirt on him and changed him for sleep.

 

Like the night before, Iggy refused to sleep in a bed that didn't have Alfred in it, and the American mourned the wasted money spent on the two-bed room. But it was rather nice having the child cling to him, his eyes lighting whenever Alfred looked at him, his tiny hands clenching and unclenching in panic whenever Alfred tried to ignore him. Alfred wasn't sure what to make of it. He wanted to blame the personality and attitude on the loss of the parents, but he was having difficulty justifying that. Would the loss of parents make a young boy that dependent on love? Even if he had lost his parents, maybe there had been something else missing from the “complete” family. He tried not to think too hard about it, as the little boy climbed into bed with him and got as close as he could, holding onto his shirt and breathing deeply.

 

That night, Alfred dreamt of finding a missing child in the woods. No shadows came, no one touched his head. He woke to chirping birds and a disgruntled Iggy, the birds celebrating morning and the child demanding food. He packed before going to the tavern with the boy, then he took his prepared horse from a stable hand. He wasted no time in setting his packs on the horse's back, then he set Iggy in the saddle and swung up behind him. The boy seemed eager for the day to begin, and gestured wildly to the point of almost falling off. Alfred's laughter received a glare, and the boy huffed while Alfred talked about the wolves that someone had said were in the area, preying on small animals and probably willing to eat a small child if it came down to it. He laughed it off as the talk of lonely travellers, but Iggy didn't seem to care either way. Hell, Iggy probably had no idea what was going on.

 

It was just as well. Panicking the poor child wouldn't be very wise, especially when said child always insisted on bathroom breaks in the middle of the very woods those wolves were said to come from. It was the fourth bathroom break of the day, and it was nearing nightfall. Alfred had decided to camp out that night, and had the camp set up, when Iggy approached at a run, screaming at the top of his tiny lungs. He threw himself at Alfred and buried his nose in Alfred's coat, in time for Alfred to see a dog approaching. A well-fed dog that obviously didn't belong in the forest.

 

Alfred shooed the dog to appease the child, and when Iggy refused to listen, he gently began to brush his fingers through the boy's hair. It was a calming motion, and Alfred let himself fall into his bedroll when Iggy finally slept. He finally shut his eyes, and let sleep take him once more.

 

Once more, a man stood above them. His hands were clenched into fists that would likely never come apart, and his mouth was a thin line. “Too much.”


	5. Chapter 5

Alfred would never be able to tell what had woken him. Whether it was the rustling of an animal in the forest, or the running water of a nearby stream, he would never be able to identify the cause. He looked around, wide awake and aware of the fact that he would not be able to fall back asleep if he tried. Iggy was still beside him, shifting slightly when Alfred sat up and stretched his arms above his head.

 

A light. There was a light in the trees.

 

Alfred looked down at the sleeping child and hesitated. His hand brushed the blade that was always kept by his head, and he chewed on his lower lip. He wanted to go see it, but he didn't dare leave Iggy alone. He didn't want to think about what would happen if the child was left to his own devices, and he didn't want to think about the surge in travellers in the area.

 

Alfred pulled on his belt slowly, trying not to make a sound. He positioned his scabbard, and then lifted Iggy, cradling him in his arms. Comanche didn't wake, and he crept through the trees and brush, closer to the stream and the light. He held Iggy with a single hand and let his free arm hang down, fingers remaining on the hilt of the sword. Iggy breathed out, whined slightly and stretched his limbs. At the noise, the light seemed to swell and burst, and Alfred froze, just in the woods that surrounded the small shores of the stream. His blue eyes were locked with the bewildered emerald eyes of an angel.

 

Alfred had never seen anything so beautiful. The angel's wings were large, and feathers drifted down into the water from where the man's hands had frozen in the process of tending to them. Silver feathers, white, gold, all drifted down the stream, like the small boats that the faeries of lore would travel in. The feathers sparkled in the darkness, and the water reflected their light. The angel looked as though he were floating on a cloud.

 

The angel started running.

 

“H-hey!” Alfred shouted, and he tried to follow. The angel splashed through the water, running away as quickly as he could while Alfred followed on the shore. Iggy had woken at some point, and he watched the angel with fascination as they pursued it. “I just- I just wanna talk!” But the angel leapt from the water and through the trees. Alfred lost it in the darkness of the forest, and he stood silently, his eyes wide with wonder. Iggy tried to curl into his shirt, and Alfred swallowed.

 

He had to return to their camping site. He had left everything there, and it would be rather depressing if he returned to find everything gone. He sighed and held Iggy closer as he turned and trekked back to the campsite. He was unable to forget the sight of that angel, standing in the middle of the stream, picking at the loose feathers of his wings. Crying.

 

Try not to think about it. That was the most he could do. It was unlikely he would ever see another angel, he should just remember the beauty and the feeling of peace. He shouldn't remember the ominous feeling of being watched.

 

By the time Alfred returned to the campsite, Iggy had fallen back asleep. Comanche snorted at his return, almost as if he were scolding him for running off. Alfred carefully positioned himself (and Iggy) back under the blankets and turned over to sleep.

 

The morning came too soon, and Alfred was woken by a snorting horse and a child that poked and prodded him for food. He tried to ignore Iggy's prods, but then the child found a stick somewhere and he had to get up for fear of losing an eye. Iggy was rather pleased with the discovery of his stick, and the fact that said stick could get him anything he wanted. The child refused to let go of the stick, and prodded Alfred in the legs when he wanted to be carried or coddled. Alfred wasn't sure he liked Iggy's discovery, but he said nothing about it. He was more concerned about eating and leaving the area as soon as possible, because when he had looked around, he had found upside-down pentagrams carved into a great number of trees.

 

The pentagrams weren't the only unwelcome signs. Alfred packed quickly and fled the forest, only to be met by soldiers. He wasn't afraid of them; he knew from the trees etched into their armor that they were England's finest warriors. But their message worried him. They had called out to him, likely prepared to try and convince him to join them. Then they had seen Iggy hiding in the blanket before Alfred, watching them with suspicious eyes.

 

The Danes had finally taken to the sea. They were planning to take England. Every hour that passed brought them closer to their home, and every hour felt like a step closer to the grave. People were scared. The royal family was preparing the army for a war. People were going to die. Alfred listened and worried, his hands tightening around Iggy involuntarily. He had to get to another town, and find a place to stay. It wouldn't be wise to sleep outside for too many nights, with the threat of war looming overhead. What would happen if someone stumbled upon him with Iggy? An enemy would run the child through in a heartbeat, with no regard to the fact that he had been orphaned and saved. They would simply see him as a child of the enemy, and therefore guilty of their crimes.

 

Alfred rode out. He didn't dare pause, and he ignored Iggy's pathetic whines for attention as he thundered through the forests and plains. He would pause briefly to gather food for the child, but then he would be off just as quickly. It was supposed to take a week to reach the capital, but with the pace he had picked up, he could make it in three days. He was determined to make it in three days. He couldn't afford to sleep on the ground outside for seven.

 

They barely slept that night. Rather, Iggy slept like a log, and Alfred stayed up, keeping watch in his paranoia. He didn't dare risk falling asleep and losing track of the child, and possibly leaving himself open for the agents of Denmark that were rumored to have already arrived. And when morning came, he quickly packed Iggy up once more and set off, a piece of bread in his mouth while Iggy played with a small branch of wildberries.

 

He began to discover that his quick pace was impossible to keep up with a child. Iggy had dealt with it the day before, but now he protested it, crying and babbling, hitting his tiny little fists on the horn of the saddle and trying to untie the bags slung over the pommel. Alfred was forced to stop more, and was already recalculating how long it would take. Five days, maybe six. Still longer than felt safe.

 

He hated letting Iggy leave his sight. He went everywhere with him when they took a break, whether Iggy was hunting for berries or a small stream to splash his hands in; but Iggy was adamant about getting as far away from Alfred as possible when he had to go. Alfred would have rather stood on the opposite side of the bush from Iggy, out of sight but close, however Iggy wouldn't allow it. It was something the boy regretted rather quickly.

 

Howls and yips erupted from the forest, and Alfred tore through the trees, already drawing his blade, his other hand lingering near his pistol. Iggy was out there. With those animals. Screaming, and crashing through the trees. He should never have let him wander so far. Alfred almost tripped over the boy when he found him, and he brought his sword down. His strike missed, but the message was clear to the pack of rabid dogs before him: He was far more fierce than a mother bear, and he would not step down from a fight with them. He would tear and slash until he was bathed in blood, but they would never touch the child.

 

The animals fled, and Iggy threw his arms around Alfred's legs, hiccuping and sniffing. Alfred knelt to lift him while he slid his sword into the scabbard, and the child whined before burying his face in Alfred's shirt. They had to move elsewhere for the night. Alfred would _not_ stay in the same place as animals that had likely had a taste a human flesh, and were eager for more.

 

They rode into the darkness of the night, and it was some time before Alfred felt safe enough to dismount and quickly set up camp, far off the trail and amidst the trees. He built a tiny fire, just larger than Comanche's hoof, and set up the blankets for Iggy. He would stay up as long as he could, and watch over the tiny child.

 

However, he had had little sleep, and so it caught him unawares, dragging him into the depths of his subconscious. He ran with his brother, jousted on the back of a goat, mounted Comanche for the first time, the day he turned sixteen, and Comanche three. However, one image stayed in his mind, a vivid memory, one that seemed to glow brighter with every passing moment. Green eyes, thick wings, and tears. 

 

“ _If you watch him, he won't die.”_

 

It was then that Alfred realized he was no longer dreaming. The tears were gone, but the angel was before him, seated on a stump. He was slouched down, his elbow on his knee and his chin cupped in his hand. He faintly recalled a hand brushing his hair in his drowsy state, low mutterings, and then he had reached out for the source. The result of the event he had thought was a dream sat before him.

 

“What?”

 

“You said you were worried the kid was going to die,” the angel grumbled, trying to shake his arm free of Alfred's hand. “Just watch him, and he won't die. Now can you let me go?”

 

Alfred didn't release him. He just stared, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. The angel's eyebrows were thick, a lot like Iggy's, but a lot bigger. He was kinda thin, no muscles to speak of, really. “You're an angel,” he mumbled, and the man across from him scowled. “Didn' know... angels...”

 

“Angels are real, yes. Now let me go.”

 

Alfred didn't. His eyes lowered, and he looked down at Iggy, sleeping peacefully at his side. His steady breathing, the rise and fall of his tiny chest. “Aren' angel s'pposed t' be...” Alfred let his eyes wander back to the white-clothed figure. He wasn't shining like he had the first time. He looked human. He looked real. Yet Alfred still felt so enchanted by the figure, and he turned his hand slightly.

 

“Dead.” The angel ended his unfinished sentence, and then his hand slipped from Alfred's. Alfred tried to reclaim it, but his hand slid through the air. His eyes snapped all the way open at the action, and his jaw dropped, leaving his lips slightly parted. “I'm dead. You're not supposed to touch me.” Alfred tried once more, but the angel's hand was nothing but the air before him. Alfred's fingers twisted in the air for something to grab onto, then he let his arm fall back against his side. He couldn't touch him.

 

“How?” he whispered, needing to know that information, though he couldn't understand why. “How did you die?”

 

The angel was silent. He watched Alfred carefully, his eyes measuring his reaction. He watched the faint twitching of the fingers, the shivering of his form. “Sleep,” he said, his voice soft. It was like listening to a mother's lullaby. “Sleep, and let me watch over you.”

 

Alfred felt himself growing drowsy, and then the angel switched to a foreign tongue that he couldn't ever hope to identify. His eyelids drooped, and then he was gone.

 

And when he woke, he was alone with a child nestled into his shirt, and no sign that the angel had ever been there.


	6. Chapter 6

Iggy was gaining weight. Three days after meeting the angel, the child's cheeks were still sunken, lacking the plumpness that all children were supposed to have, but his ribs didn't seem to protrude as much as they used to. That, and Alfred could feel the change when he lifted him. It was slight, but it was there.

 

He had Comanche tied in front of the small bar, and Iggy in his arms. The tiny building was empty save for a single tavern-keeper that was wiping the wooden countertop with a rag. He looked up briefly, and his gaze passed over Iggy before stopping at Alfred's face. He gestured with his free hand, and Alfred took a seat at the bar.

 

“Someone told me you have bounties posted here,” Alfred said, and he looked around. “Nice place.”

 

“Not many people come through here anymore,” the keeper told him. “Not since th' capital.” Alfred accepted a drink that the keeper offered, and he let Iggy down onto the floor to explore the tavern. The child disappeared behind around the corner of the counter, and the keeper leaned against it. “So you a hunter?” Alfred nodded, and he chuckled. “With a kid... A damned kid.”

 

“I just found him,” Alfred told him with a grin. “He's cute, isn't he? Someone said his parents were probably killed by bandits or something.” The keeper stepped back from the counter and disappeared into a back room. When he returned, he was carrying a small jug of milk. He knelt down behind the counter, and Alfred assumed that he was giving it to Iggy. “So what's been happening in the capital?” he asked, finally remembering what the keeper had greeted him with. “Something big happen?”

 

The keeper stood back up and shrugged, looking down once more before turning his attention to Alfred. “Castle's calling in soldiers and knights from th' farthest points o' the country. Say they're preparin' fer a war. Spies everywhere, ours an' theirs. Danes are s'posed t' already be here, bu' their warships're still sailin'.” He sighed. “Th' capital's gonna be first t' go when they land. No one even knows if the king's still there. Prob'ly already gone.”

 

Alfred swallowed. He couldn't take Iggy there, where he would be at risk. While he thought about what he would do, the keeper moved around, setting glasses in place and occasionally looking down. Iggy had begun laughing, and it was obvious he was following the keeper as he worked. “Time to go,” he finally decided, and he moved around the counter to pick him up. The keeper watched him silently, then pulled a stack of papers from a drawer in the counter. He handed them to Alfred, and the American looked at him with confusion.

 

“Those came out a couple weeks ago. They all have prices on their heads. I dunno if y' want t' take any in, but watch out for 'em. I'm sure they wouldn' mind hurtin' a kid with 'is kid.” The keeper smiled at his joke, and Alfred nodded his head before leaving. The keeper returned to cleaning, and Alfred let the door swing shut behind him.

 

He didn't speak as he popped Iggy up into the saddle, then untied Comanche and led him away from the tavern. He shoved the reins in his pocket as he walked, and started to flip through the papers. They were all unruly-looking men, common thugs that were teetering on the edge of (or already past) murder. He kept reading through the posters, only pausing to comfort Iggy when a group of soldiers stormed past on horseback, and then his heart fluttered when he found a poster in the middle of the stack.

 

There was a name for the man with the red eyes. It was Gilbert Beilschmidt, and he was wanted for entering the country with the intent to murder the prince. Alfred didn't realize he had stopped walking until Comanche snorted, and he looked over quickly. Iggy was leering down at him, patting his hands against the front of the saddle, and Alfred shoved the papers into his saddle bags.

 

“I'm comin' up,” he said, and Iggy scooted forward in the saddle. Alfred put his foot in the stirrup and swung up behind Iggy, then took the reins from where he had left them on Comanche's neck. Iggy settled back against his chest and Alfred clucked his tongue, moving Comanche into a lope and swaying with every stride. Iggy laughed as the air blew against them, and he waved his arms up and down. Alfred would have laughed along with him, but he was thinking of Gilbert, and the prince. People had always said that Iggy looked like the prince, and Iggy also looked like the angel. He wondered what the man had thought, when he had seen a kid that looked so much like his target.

 

And what the angel had thought when he had looked down at the sleeping child at Alfred's side, a child that mirrored his image almost perfectly. “A brother,” Alfred decided, looking down at Iggy with sad eyes. “Or a cousin. Maybe even a nephew.” Iggy turned his head and met Alfred's sad eyes with his wide ones, moving his mouth and clucking his tongue. Alfred smiled at him, and his tiny eyes shut with the size of his smile.

 

Alfred would never admit it to anyone, but he wanted to see that angel again. He wanted answers, and he wanted to know about the angel. Of course, he hadn't thought that he would wake that night, with the angel sitting on a limb of the tree above him, watching him with wary eyes. Neither had spoken. They had stared at each other for a long time, and then the boy covered in the blankets by Alfred's side mumbled something and turned in his sleep.

 

The noise returned Alfred to his senses. “D'you know him?” he blurted, and the angel frowned. “The kid. Iggy. He looks like you.”

 

The angel blinked, then shook his head. “Can't say that I do. He's a bit young for my tastes.”

 

Alfred hesitated, and he shook his head. Had the angel just made a joke? Or had he been serious? He didn't look like he could ever crack a joke, and that observation slightly alarmed him. He watched as the angel tilted his head curiously, and then he pulled himself up into a sitting position, folding his legs as he carefully extracted himself from Iggy's arms. “Are you still protecting us?”

 

“Why else would I be here?”

 

Alfred breathed in the air and sighed, a small smile lighting his face as he looked up to the angel. He let one of his hands pet Iggy's head, and the other cradled his chin while he rested his elbow on his knee. “So why do you keep coming back? You've been here a few times, right? Don't you have things to do?”

 

The angel looked taken aback by the question, and he looked away. He kept his eyes low as he thought, and chewed his lower lip. “Why _do_ I watch over you?” he wondered, his voice soft. Alfred unconsciously leaned closer to the angel, hanging on his every word. “I suppose it feels right,” he mused. “I have no other reason.”

 

“I remember stories from when I was a kid,” Alfred said. He ignored the angel's confusion, and continued speaking, trying to remember. “My brother had this story, about when people die. When you die, you go away, and disappear. You don't exist anymore.” He paused and squinted his eyes, staring through the trees and into the darkness. “Why are you still here?”

 

The angel gave a start, and he almost tumbled from the branch. He caught himself, and Alfred watched as his pale skin turned even whiter in the darkness, an eerie shine in the tops of the trees. His legs swayed in the branches, lightly brushing the wood, and he looked into the distance. Alfred watched in silence, and then he swallowed. The angel looked so _disgusted_ and _pained_ that Alfred almost told him “never mind,” that it didn't matter.

 

However, the angel spoke first. “I don't know,” he admitted, and he glared into the distance, his brows low over his eyes. “I don't know how I came to be here... I was riding-” He stopped. His eyes widened slightly, and he raised his hand to cover his lips. “I drowned. _Was_ drowned. Someone held me beneath the river. Couldn't breathe. Cold.” The angel no longer spoke to Alfred. His eyes were glazed, and his lips moved slowly as he tried to remember, narrating his death with short words and curt observations. “And I woke up. It was dark, so dark.” He shook his head. “When I'm not here, it's dark. It's always dark. And the spectres grab, and cling. Don't want to let go. It's like ice, wrapping around your arm, and pulling you back under the surface.”

 

Alfred clenched Iggy tightly in his arms, murmuring sweet nothings into his ear. The sleeping child groaned and turned, and Alfred jumped when there was a rustling in the bushes. The angel had fallen silent, and he looked around as though waking from a dream.

 

“What _are_ you doing?” the angel asked him, and Alfred laughed, his voice shaking as his body trembled.

 

“Protecting Iggy, y'know? He might be scared of ghosts, and-”

 

The angel stared at Alfred as he continued, and his mouth twisted in confusion. “You're scared of ghosts.” He ignored Alfred's protests, looking to the sky in confusion and amusement. “But  _I'm_ a ghost.”

 

“You're an angel,” Alfred was quick to point out. “But Iggy doesn't like to hear ghost stories.”

 

“He's asleep.”

 

Alfred stopped. He looked down at Iggy's peaceful face, then back up at the bemused angel above. He looked conflicted, trying to come to terms with whatever he was dwelling on, and finally he spoke. “You drowned.” The angel didn't answer him. He just tilted his head. “You drowned, and you weren't... You weren't, er... You weren't  _buried_ right. So, you can't rest. Or something like that, my brother's the one that pays attention to this stuff.”

 

The angel frowned and stepped from the branch, letting himself drift to the ground below. Alfred tried not to appreciate how his body looked in the darkness, and how the tiny halo above his head looked like something fun to play with. “Why does that matter? Burial is not-”

 

“If we give you a real funeral, then you can pass over. On. Whatever it is.” Alfred looked caught between eagerness and fear, and the angel stared at him blankly. “We have to find your body!”

 

If the angel had expected anything of Alfred, it was not that. He recoiled from the words, his face showing his alarm and shock. He opened his mouth and closed it, reached towards Alfred hesitantly. Alfred tried to touch his hand and assure him that everything would be all right, but his hands passed through the angel's like it had the first time. The angel looked relieved by that fact, and he pulled his hand away and crossed his arms.

 

“We can do it,” Alfred insisted. “I mean, finding where you were riding would be good! Then we could follow it, and bury you, and-”

 

“I don't remember anything but dying,” the angel said, and Alfred froze. He looked down at the ground, and began to pick at the soles of his boots.

 

“Nothing?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

Alfred loosened his grip on Iggy and slowly set him down in the blankets, covering him and watching as the boy grabbed the blankets and pulled them to his chest. “Maybe you'll remember sometime,” he muttered. “Then we'll find it. It'll be like a quest, or something. I mean, it'll be better for you, and everything.” Alfred reached for his saddle bags as the angel watched, and he pulled out the sheets of wanted criminals. He flipped through to Gilbert Beilschmidt, then held it up. “D'you know him?” The angel shook his head slowly, and Alfred frowned before returning the papers to his bags. “Well, we'll find something. Definitely, we wi-”

 

“I don't want you to look.”

 

Alfred stopped speaking. He watched the angel, took in his narrowed eyes and set jaw. He looked almost angry, and he tightened the arms crossed before his chest.

 

“I don't want to know.”

 

So that was it, then.


	7. Chapter 7

He didn't remember sleeping, nor did he remember waking. Alfred sat with his back leaned against a tree, his fingers threading through Iggy's messy hair. The child mumbled in his sleep, and Alfred smiled when he thought he heard an “Ahfwed” leave those tiny lips.

 

Reluctantly, Alfred left the child and lit the fire that had died overnight. He dug through his packs for food, grimacing when he realized that they were beginning to run low. He had to restock somewhere, or he would have to start hunting for food (and he wasn't sure how Iggy would react to him bringing back dead animals). He peeled open a package and set strips of meat on rocks he pushed inside the flames, listening as the fat crackled and Iggy stirred. He checked to see that Comanche was wandering through the trees and pulling at clumps of grass, then he looked back to the meat and turned it with a stick. He returned to his packs and pulled out a loaf of bread and some honey, and he set them aside where they would be warmed by the fire.

 

Iggy was waking. Alfred listened to the child's grunts as he turned in the blankets and slowly sat up. Iggy wandered over to the fire, and Alfred could hear the blanket trailing behind him, being stuck with sticks and dead leaves that the boy tried groggily to shake out. Alfred took pity on him and brushed the blanket with his hands.

 

“Bugho,” Iggy said, and he plopped down on the ground beside Alfred and crossed his tiny arms. Alfred turned the meat and pulled the bread and honey from the stones, handing a third to Iggy and watching as he shoved it in his mouth and began to chew on it. He watched Alfred while he chewed, his eyes narrowed suspiciously as though he expected Alfred to take it back from him.

 

“You're making a mess,” Alfred told him, and Iggy turned away from him when he tried to wipe the drool from his mouth with a rag from his bag. “Guess you're not getting any pork.”

 

At that, Iggy's head swivelled back around and he stopped gnawing on the piece of bread, his eyes wide with horror. Alfred grabbed his chance and wiped his mouth, tugging on the bread briefly to annoy the child. Iggy chomped down and grabbed it with both hands, his brows lowering over his eyes. Alfred was pretty sure that the boy was smirking at him, when he “couldn't” pull it from his mouth.

 

Alfred turned the pork and looked back towards Iggy. The child was watching the meat cook with a look of fascination and apprehension, and his eyes crossed to look down at the piece of bread in his mouth.

 

Alfred chuckled. “Finally figured out y' can't eat pork while that thing's still in your mouth?”

 

Iggy narrowed his eyes at Alfred, and then he began to chew vigorously, tearing off chucks of bread and swallowing. Alfred didn't look away; he was sure that the child was going to choke with how he was eating, but when he raised a hand to slow him, Iggy batted at his arm and turned around.

 

“You can take a break from one and eat another,” Alfred told him, cupping his own chin in his hand and watching Iggy intently. Iggy's jaw dropped open, and his eyes darted to the meat cooking by the fire. It was as though a new world had opened up; a world where he could vary the order of the food that he ate.

 

It was actually quite funny. The look of pure bliss on Iggy's face made him want to pull the child into a hug, but he knew that the boy would pitch a fit if he did. He was really cute that way.

 

Iggy kept his eyes on Alfred as he slowly pulled the bread from his mouth, and Alfred speared a piece of pork with a stick. He held it out the the boy, and Iggy reached out for it eagerly. His fingers closed around the meat and he let go immediately, his eyes wide as he shook his hand.

 

“It's hot,” Alfred chuckled, and he used his free hand to wrap Iggy's fingers around the stick. “That's why it's on a stick.”

 

Iggy grimaced at Alfred's comment and began to chew on the meat while Alfred moved to get his own food. It was funny when Iggy ate, bread in one hand, meat in the other. And breakfast had turned into some sort of serious endeavor in the last few minutes. Iggy looked serious while he ate, almost critical, and Alfred couldn't resist the urge to tousle his hair.

 

Iggy stopped eating and turned his narrowed eyes onto the older man. “Ahfwed, no,” Iggy said slowly but sternly, and he returned to his food while Alfred stared at him in surprise.

 

Breakfast passed in relative silence, apart from Alfred's repeated attempts to get Iggy to talk again. He packed up camp when he had finished eating (and Iggy had returned to chewing on the bread), then checked the map and climbed up into the saddle with Iggy in front of him.

 

“Dale's not far,” Alfred told him when they started out. “We couldn't make it last night, but it shouldn't take more than a couple hours to get there now. We can take it easy, stay in town a couple days, the works!”

 

Iggy apparently didn't care _where_ Dale was located. He seemed to only be concerned with the bread in his hands, and ignoring Alfred's crooning. Alfred had said what he wanted, and then he had tried to get Iggy to speak again. He repeated his name over and over again, occasionally putting in words like “hero” and “hi”, and sometimes “I love you.” Iggy had set himself and worked hard on ignoring him, glaring at his hands and babbling under his breath.

 

Barely an hour had passed. Their pace was slow, and they enjoyed the cool breeze under the bright sun. They passed through fields and plains, forests and swamps, pushing aside branches and ducking under thick limbs. They had another hour before Dale would be in sight, and then they would stay for a few days. Alfred could look for some odd jobs for money, and Iggy would have a few nights under a roof.

 

After a while, Alfred began to notice something. There was a steady  _clicking_ , like someone was tapping something. The sound bothered him, and he often turned his head discretely to see if he could locate the source. It was around them, sometimes behind and sometimes ahead, and it slowly drove him mad when he tried to discover what it was that was making the noise. It was like someone was tapping a cane on rocks, and as time passed, it turned into someone  _sliding_ the cane over rocks and scraping the bottom. It was an unsettling sound, and then Alfred saw something move in the bushes.

 

He slid from the saddle in a single fluid movement, leaving Iggy on Comanche's back and setting his hand on the sheath attached to the saddle's breastplate. He kept himself between the horse and the bushes where he had heard the sound, and internally cursed at being in the forest, surrounded by trees and on a path he didn't dare run on. He was sure there were obstacles on the path; how could there not be? That meant that he couldn't run and escape if he pleased. Iggy looked down at him from the saddle, and then Alfred saw it.

 

_Him_ , rather.

 

The man was disgusting. Greasy and covered in grime, the man watched them almost lecherously from the forest, his mouth open into a grin that revealed the brown and yellow teeth within. His clothes were torn and dirty, and his dark hair hung in clumps that fell past his shoulders. His eyes were dark and narrowed, making his presence vile and malicious at best.

 

Alfred heard something rustle, and refused to let the man move any closer. He tore the blade from the sheath and turned, blocking as the man burst from the bushes with a broken sword. He almost laughed at the pathetic weapon, but Iggy's distressed cries from the saddle had him unusually serious. He pushed back with the sword instead of slashing, mindful of the boy behind him, and what blood might do to him. And he was strong enough that he shouldn't have to hurt the guy too badly, even if he did look a bit desperate.

 

Alfred had to concentrate. He sidestepped when the man lunged at him, and he blocked a slash with his sword. The man stumbled past him, and then Alfred turned. He raised his arm and slammed his elbow down on the man's back, then moved forward and dropped his weight on the man.

 

The man fell like a rock. He flattened under Alfred and flailed while the American grabbed his wrist and squeezed, breaking his grip on the broken sword and knocking it from his hand. The man grunted beneath him, and Alfred twisted his arms behind his back. He looked towards Comanche, and then up at Iggy. Iggy's lips quivered and his body trembled, and Alfred pointed to the saddle with a finger.

 

“Get me the rope, Iggy,” Alfred told him. The struggling had ceased, and the man below him seemed to accept his fate. “The rope. Behind you. The strands and really big thread?”

 

Iggy shifted in the saddle, and Alfred began to regret asking him when he lost his balance. Comanche sidestepped and Iggy caught himself, then he began to prod at the coiled rope on the back of the saddle.

 

“So what're y' gonna do t' me?” the man finally grunted, and Alfred looked down.

 

“I think I saw you on a wanted poster somewhere,” Alfred told him cheerfully, and the man groaned. The rope finally fell from the saddle with a _thump_ , and Alfred reached over to pull the rope to him. The man didn't fight as the rope was wrapped around his arms, cut, and then wrapped around his legs.

 

It was easy draping the man (belly-down) over the saddle, but that meant that Alfred would have to carry Iggy to Dale, or at least until they could get rid of their cargo. Their trip would be longer, and Alfred wasn't sure if Iggy would appreciate being carted around instead of seated on Comanche's back.

 

He distracted Iggy with stories of heroism, and fairy tales from home as they walked, ignoring the scoffs from the man on his saddle. He had been correct in thinking that Iggy would want nothing to do with the man in the saddle, nor would he want to be carried. His scowl said it all.

 

But he still curled up in Alfred's arms, his head resting against Alfred's shoulder and his hands fisted in his shirt. He didn't make a sound as he watched Alfred talk, his face strangely peaceful when he thought that Alfred wasn't watching him.

 

It took three hours to reach the plains of Dale, and then they stepped past the outer walls and into the bustling village.


	8. Chapter 8

Alfred would have preferred to get a room at the inn immediately upon reaching Dale, but the man draped over his saddle had to be taken to the town's prison, where he could claim the bounty and get the man out of his hands. Then Iggy would be back up in the saddle, and Alfred wouldn't have to struggle with the child while he attempted to bite and hit the man in the saddle.

 

The man had been a pain as well. He had shouted every time Iggy had hit or kicked him, and Alfred had finally been forced to shove a gag into his mouth. Then the man had struggled and made a nuisance of himself, until Alfred had tied him down and threatened to silence him for good (he had covered Iggy's ears before he said it, though).

 

“Here we are!” Alfred told Iggy when they finally stood before the old stone building. An old man in striped pants watched them from the doorway, frowning when Alfred set Iggy on the ground and moved to untie the criminal from the saddle. Iggy weaved around Alfred's legs, probably wishing for him to drop the man that had taken his seat so that he could sink his teeth into him. Alfred somehow managed to avoid him, and he slung the man over his shoulder so that he could turn to the man in the doorway and ask where he was supposed to take bounties.

 

The old man blinked and scratched at his chin. Then he jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, and to the interior of the prison. Alfred happily marched in with Iggy scrambling behind him, not wanting to be left behind. “Y' grabbed 'im with a kid?” the old man said when Alfred dropped the criminal into a chair, and Alfred nodded.

 

“He followed us through the woods,” Alfred told him. “Couldn't risk him going after Iggy.”

 

The man cocked an eyebrow, then he looked down at the child. “Er... _Iggy?_ ”

 

“Yep.” Alfred grinned. “He's cute, isn't he?”

 

The old man hesitated before he nodded, and he moved to the desk within. He slid a drawer open and began to dig through wanted posters. “The new generation has the oddest names,” he muttered as he searched. Alfred was going to ask him what he meant by that, but then Iggy began to tug on his pants. He knelt and lifted the boy, letting him search through the pockets on his jacket while he waited for the old man to find the poster, and hand over the cash.

 

“New in these parts?” the man guessed when he finally retrieved the paper, and he moved into a back room. “Yer accent's a bit funny,” he called out, and Alfred looked down at Iggy.

 

“Is my accent funny?” he asked the child, but Iggy looked away. He appeared to be more interested in the window than Alfred.

 

“This's it,” the old man said, and he walked out of the back room. He set the bills in Alfred's extended hand, then he forced the criminal to his feet and marched him to a cell. He never looked back at Alfred, and after a moment of indecision and waiting, Alfred turned and left.

 

He picked out the nearest inn and hoped that the workers weren't evil enough to murder him in his sleep. He didn't bother asking around about the best place; his intuition had worked well in the past, and he planned on it working now. He left their packs in the room and watched as one of the hands took Comanche to a stall, then decided that Iggy needed something to eat while the workers at the inn washed their clothes and old blankets. He walked the town first, showing Iggy the old houses and the decorative stone gargoyles that guarded the gates of a house that belonged to a noble. Iggy looked thrilled when he saw the gargoyle; he reached out and whined to touch it, and babbled with a grin when his fingers finally fell upon it and sprawled across its eyes.

 

“Cool, right?” Alfred asked him, and Iggy nodded excitedly. Alfred pried him away from the statues after a moment and walked him back towards a tavern they had passed, feeling his stomach twist inside of him with hunger. He tried to ignore the growing number of soldiers in the town, and slid into a booth with Iggy perched on the seat across from him. It didn't take long for a barmaid to appear, and she smiled at them and asked what they wanted. Milk, ale, and food, Alfred had told her with a grin, and she had giggle before turning away and returning to the kitchen where she had appeared from. Alfred watched her go, not noticing Iggy's repeated attempts to get his attention.

 

“No!” the child finally snapped, and Alfred jerked from his trance and looked back over. A smile lit his face at the child's grimace, and he leaned forward.

 

“What's wrong, Iggy?” Alfred asked him, and Iggy glared.

 

“No.”

 

Alfred almost squealed with joy at the word. “You excited for your milk?”

 

“No!”

 

“You-”

 

“No-”

 

“-like a star!”

 

Alfred stopped. The loud ramblings of a drunken man shouldn't be something he was distracted by, but he couldn't resist turning and looking towards the brunette on the other side of the tavern.

 

“Just 'sploded, out o' the water! Like a rocket, 'r somthin'!” The man made a motion with his hands, bumping them together and then spreading them as though to imitate an explosion. “Disappeared int' th' trees b' Th'rne!”

 

“Because ever'thin' you say 's true,” another drawled at him, then slapped his shoulder and knocked him to the floor. The men around the table burst out laughing, and Iggy looked around curiously. The child craned his head to see the men better, and the barmaid chose that time to return. She set plates down on the table, and then made sure that Iggy saw the mug of milk that she placed before him. Iggy looked torn between drinking the milk and watching the table behind them, and decided that he could do both. Of course, Alfred had to turn him back before he dumped the tilted mug all over himself and the floor.

 

“Eat or you're gonna dump everything,” Alfred told him, and Iggy pulled the mug of milk close to his chest while he used his free hand to pick at the beans on the plate.

 

“No,” Iggy told him, and he stuffed a bean into his mouth. Alfred beamed, glancing back towards the man that was picking himself up from the floor.

 

“Hey, Iggy...” Alfred looked back at the boy, and Iggy blinked. “Wanna go on an adventure?”

 

“No.” Iggy drank his milk eagerly, and Alfred popped a forkful of potatoes into his mouth.

 

“We'll go to Thorne next,” Alfred told him. “I mean, not much we can do now, since we can't go to the capital. Might as well have some fun, right?”

 

“No.”

 

Alfred grinned at Iggy's enthusiasm, and he motioned to the barmaid when she passed to ask if they could get more food. She nodded before disappearing, and Alfred looked back at Iggy. The boy had cleaned off his plate, and stared gloomily at his empty mug. The men had continued for a short time about the mysterious light of Thorne, but then they had moved onto other topics, such as the breast size of the various barmaids and other women within the tavern. He imagined it was an enthralling conversation, though he couldn't make out much other than “hurg” and “bluech.” Of course, the drunken men seemed to understand each other well enough, so it was probably a language that could only be understood and spoken after excessive drinking.

 

“Thorne's a good place t' take him,” the barmaid said when she returned, and Iggy squealed at the mug of milk set before him. The barmaid watched with a small smile as Iggy claimed the mug and locked his lips on the glass, and then she looked back at Alfred. “Th' Harvest Festival's comin' up,” she continued. “I bet he'd like it. Plenty o' games an' things t' see. I heard they're even importin' fireworks from China this year. Now _that's_ somethin' t' see!”

 

Alfred nodded, and she disappeared. He looked down at the food, then back at Iggy. “We'll leave tomorrow,” he grinned, and Iggy raised the mug to his lips.

 

“No.”

 

 

* * *

 

They shopped that night, hunting out food for their travels, as well as another blanket for Iggy. When they returned to their room at the inn, Iggy collapsed into his bed (Alfred had gotten a room with only one bed; he had quickly learned that spending more money on multiple beds was a waste, as Iggy never slept alone), and Alfred changed by the large window that overlooked the trees. The moon was gone that night, and he tried to look into the darkness and see if he could make out shapes. Nothing caught his attention. Everything had merged into one large black mass, and he sighed. It was warm out, and the occasional breeze that swept through the room felt like heaven. He pulled his shirt on and then let his hands rest on the sill of the window, and he leaned out slightly to take in as much of the fresh air as possible.

 

When he leaned out, he could hear a scratching in the woods. He narrowed his eyes slowly and glanced back towards Iggy. The child turned in his sleep, and the scratching stopped. After a moment, it began once more, and Alfred swallowed. He probably should have been more concerned about the fact that he wanted to go out and find the source of the noise, but his curiousity overpowered his caution. He went back to the bed and dug through the bags beside it until he found his pistol and his blade, and he pulled his belt on before returning to the window. The scratching continued, and he looked back once to be sure that Iggy was still sleeping before he crawled out and dropped to the ground.

 

The scratching stopped for a moment before continuing, and Alfred was sure that it was a sign of hesitation. He crept through the trees, his eyes slowly adjusting to the lack of light, and he listened to the rustle of leaves and pine needles beneath his feet. He froze when a twig snapped beneath him, but the scratching continued. The thing making the noise was either confident, or it didn't hear him. He kept a hand on each weapon, ready to draw at the slightest of movements, and then he took another step.

 

The forest was bathed in light. Alfred blinked and took a step back, and the light disappeared immediately. He looked around, and even leaned forward to find the light once more, but it never appeared. As soon as he stepped forward, it returned, almost blinding him.

 

The scratching had stopped, and green eyes watched him in surprise. The angel's mouth was open slightly in confusion, and Alfred waved. “Hey.”

 

The angel lowered his arm, and the rock he held fell to the ground. Alfred looked around slowly, and he blinked a few times. He wasn't sure exactly what he was looking at, but... Well, those looked like the upside-down pentagrams he had found in the woods around their camping areas a few times. He remembered how his father had always emphasized the evil brought forth by the pentagrams, and he swallowed.

 

Why was an angel making symbols that were supposedly tools of the devil?

 

As he thought, it became obvious that there were a lot of things he hadn't asked. Rather, he had asked, but he had accepted the answers blindly.

 

“Angels are s'pposed t' be...” Alfred hesitated. “Why haven't you moved on?” His voice was low, unsure, untrusting. “What're you doin' here? What're you _doin_ '?”

 

The angel watched him almost fearfully, and his green eyes seemed to darken. “I can explain,” the angel said quickly, even as Alfred's hands tightened on his weapons. “Just let me explain.”


	9. Chapter 9

Neither man nor angel spoke. They stared at one another. The American looked angry, his blue eyes narrowed with suspicion, and the angel looked almost desperate. His white clothes hung on his thin frame, and they seemed to engulf him. His brows were contorted into something akin to pain, and they reminded Alfred of Iggy.

 

Iggy. Who was back at the inn. Even while this psycho angel was carving death charms into the trees outside.

 

Alfred should never have left him.

 

“Don't go!” the angel burst when Alfred turned to leave. Alfred hesitated, and the angel continued to speak. “They're not evil, I swear! They're tricks!”

 

“Pentagrams like _that_ aren't tricks,” Alfred snapped, but he jumped back when he saw that the angel had moved closer. The angel stood by his side, and began to tap one of the pentagrams insistently. “Stop-”

 

“They're not complete!” The angel traced the star with his finger, and he stopped before the last point. “The pattern doesn't complete! And I put in a charm, _right here_!” He prodded the point at the bottom. “The line turns early, and there's a small rune right there! Even if it was complete, it wouldn't hurt you! It's just there to scare people away!”

 

“How the hell does it scare people away when it's under a bed?” Alfred demanded. He had to get back to Iggy.

 

“It gives off an aura, of darkness! The people following you fear that darkness!”

 

“Because you would know all about-” Alfred stopped. His hands slipped from the weapons on his belt, and he grabbed the angel's shoulder with one. “What people?”

 

“I don't know,” the angel said, “but the boy is being hunted. Or you are, I don't know. But they're looking for you.”

 

Alfred turned away and began to run through the woods, back through the darkness. He had to get back to the inn. Iggy was there, alone. He couldn't let him get hurt. What if those people found him? Were there really people? The angel, the angel had to be behind it. What if he wasn't? What if the angel really was trying to help?

 

Alfred forced himself to stop thinking. He had to get back to Iggy. There was no choice but to stay with him, protect him. Always. Alfred reached the inn and grabbed onto the sill of his window, then he hoisted himself up with a little bit of difficulty.

 

Iggy was still there. He was sleeping in the bed, curled in on himself, sucking his thumb. Completely safe. Alfred would have breathed out in relief, except that the angel was sitting on the chair by the door. The light from the forest was gone, and Alfred was surprised that he had actually seen him. He couldn't see his body. All he could see were those green eyes. They seemed to illuminate themselves in the darkness, and he could see how they gazed at him. He felt cold.

 

“Get. Out,” Alfred ordered through grit teeth.

 

The angel didn't move.

 

“I told you to-”

 

“I'm not trying to hurt you,” the angel said, and Alfred moved slowly towards the bed. “I _am_ protecting you. Everything I've done acts as a repellent, something that will force your enemy into turning away, or at least holding back.” He sounded regretful. “I am not your enemy.”

 

“Then leave,” Alfred snapped, keeping his voice low so Iggy wouldn't wake. The child was already starting to stir. “Don't come back here. I don't want to see or hear you.”

 

“I won't see you,” the angel told him. “But I _will_ protect him. You can't stop me from that.”

 

Alfred was prepared to reply, but then the eyes were gone. And the room was shrouded in an impenetrable darkness, one he hadn't noticed when the angel had been there. He shivered and looked around before he removed his belt. He hung it from the post of the bed, then he climbed in beside Iggy. The child latched onto his arm as soon as he laid down, and Alfred swallowed.

 

He didn't sleep that night.

 

* * *

 

Alfred didn't wait for breakfast the following morning. He paid for it and left, setting Iggy in the saddle and climbing up behind him. The boy had gotten used to eating on the run, and Alfred didn't want to spend any more time in that town.

 

Comanche protested their journey almost immediately. Alfred jerked the reins to turn him, and after a toss of the head, the horse finally complied and followed his lead. They ran, through fields and forests, never slowing save for the occasional needed break. Then they would continue.

 

A trip that should've taken seven days took three. The nights were cold, but Iggy enjoyed them. He ate with glee, happy to be out of the saddle after fifteen hours of riding and walking. Comanche slept like a log, exhausted by the run. Alfred was nervous, tense. He refused to show Iggy, but Comanche was harder to fool. The horse could feel the tremors in his hands through the reins, and fed off the anxiety. He acted up, making the trip more difficult.

 

When they arrived at Thorne, it was obvious that it wasn't a normal city. Alfred walked into the town leading a tired Comanche, an even more exhausted Iggy in the saddle. He staggered into the nearest inn, and Comanche was taken to a stall while Alfred took Iggy into their rented room. It was midday, but they both collapsed into the bed, not bothering to undress in their exhaustion (not that Iggy would've changed his clothes anyway; he was always resistant about taking off his clothes, so that Alfred had to force him).

 

They slept until the following morning. Iggy would have slept longer, except that Alfred's stirring woke him, and he stared blearily at the room he was in. He focused in on Alfred, who was sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at the wall, and then he prodded him with his finger.

 

“Ahfwed.”

 

Alfred turned slowly and looked at the child, then he smiled when Iggy yawned. He stood and staggered across the room to his bags, and began to dig through them for clothes.

 

Breakfast was a reasonably quiet affair. People passed in and out of the inn, apparently in preparation for the festival. A few booths had been set up already, to prepare people for the night of excitement that was to begin the following day.

 

Alfred sipped his coffee in silence while Iggy twisted and turned in his seat. The boy was fascinated by the people around him, notably the barmaid with a _very_ generous chest. Alfred was amused by the child's antics, but still felt the need to push food at him, so that he would actually eat and fill his stomach. Iggy ate slowly and glared at Alfred while he did, obviously wanting to watch more interesting things than Alfred's eating habits.

 

Breakfast finished, Alfred took Iggy outside and they explored the town. It was a large town, and it bustled with people and excitement. Wherever he turned, it seemed that someone was playing with small stones, marked with ancient runes, and many were trying to read another's future. The town was obviously a place where superstition and spiritual beliefs were very big (from the various magick and religious stores scattered throughout the streets, it was very noticeable).

 

“No,” Iggy said sternly when Alfred went to set him down. Alfred hesitated for a moment, trying to determine if he was serious about not wanting to be put down, and then stood back up again and held him against his chest. “No,” Iggy repeated, and Alfred saw that he was looking towards one of the many stands.

 

Actually, he was staring at what was  _on_ one of the stands. Alfred decided to wander over to see if Iggy really wanted it, and the boy bobbed his head as he tried to get a better look. “Seriously?” Alfred asked him, and the woman behind the stand looked up. “We'll have to get it tonight,” Alfred said, and Iggy pouted.

 

“I can sell now,” the woman said, and Alfred nodded slowly. Iggy was watching the item with wide eyes, entranced by the object, and Alfred dug through his pockets for cash.

 

“How much?”

 

* * *

 

Iggy and the bear were inseparable. It was awkward carrying a child that was clinging to a bear that was roughly his size, but Alfred pulled it off with ease. Iggy chattered amiably to the bear, petting its ears and grooming the fur on its plush head, and Alfred had to chuckle at the attention the boy showed to the stuffed animal. Iggy had quickly named the bear ( _“Kuhoo”_ ), and Alfred had bought a tiny hat for it when Iggy had pouted and pointed.

 

The kid was good at getting what he wanted. Not only was _Kuhoo_ sporting a little yellow hat, but Iggy was waving around a tiny walking stick that Alfred had grabbed at another stand. The square was slowly but steadily filling up with people, and Iggy was becoming more and more excited as time passed. The bustling crowds and the steady murmur of human voices fascinated the boy. He eagerly reached out for the people that passed, and many stopped to shake his tiny little hand before they continued walking.

 

It was more fun than Alfred had expected. There was plenty to see and even more to do, and even Iggy could participate in some of the events. A section of the river had been surrounded with rope, and children ran inside the perimeter and shouted as they splashed one another. Iggy had taken one look at the chaos and clung to Alfred's head, and so Alfred had to look elsewhere. There was pig wrestling, but before he had even taken a step in that direction, Iggy had begun to hit him on the back with his walking stick.

 

So pig wrestling was out. That sucked, because he had been looking forward to it. Instead they found themselves in front of a stand where a child had to throw a ball and get it in a basket. Completely boring, but Iggy seemed to like it. Actually, he just liked throwing the ball and knocking over the basket. Every time the man behind the counter had to bend to pick up the basket, Iggy cackled and Alfred worried about his sanity. When Alfred noticed a bright color in the sky, he turned slightly, and grinned.

 

“Iggy, fireworks!” Alfred lifted the boy and aimed his face towards the river. People were gathering by the banks, and Alfred popped Iggy up on his shoulders for the walk over. The lights were amazing in the night sky. Blues and reds and greens exploded in the sky above, scattering like leaves and being swept away into the wind. Alfred found a fence to lean against, and he watched silently at the lightshow above.

 

“Awesome, right?” Alfred asked the boy on his shoulders, and Iggy rested his chin in Alfred's hair. They stood in relative silence. Alfred would occasionally ask what Iggy thought of the lights, but the boy would mumble and run his fingers through Alfred's hair. After a few moments, Alfred pulled him down and perched him on the fence, to remove the stick that had been prodding him against his back. Iggy seemed perfectly content with the new arrangement, and he leaned back to rest against Alfred's chest.

 

“Got a lot this year,” a passing woman said to the man she was with. She kept her eyes locked on the lights in the sky above, and the man nodded.

 

“We needed something to make people a bit happier, with the mess going on in the capital,” he told her. “The town decided that-”

 

“Chambers!”

 

The man was interrupted by a shout, and a worker with dark hair ran through the streets towards him. His hair was tousled from his run, and the whites of his eyes shown brightly in the darkness. “Chambers, ships, the Danes, they're comin-”

 

“They're coming?” The first man straightened, his eyes widening slightly. “What do you-”

 

“Those aren't fireworks! At least, they're not ours!” the worker gasped. “The Danes, they're coming, up the river-”

 

Screams erupted from the crowds. The ships hadn't reached the town, but shadows could be seen down the river. Alfred snatched Iggy from the fence and began to run, trying not to be jostled by the others fleeing the shores. He had to return to the inn. He had to get his things, then he had to grab Comanche. They couldn't stay. They had to flee.

 

Iggy cried out while Alfred ran, clenching Kuhoo tightly in his fists and watching the chaos around him. People fled and shouted, trying to escape the mayhem. Alfred tore through the front door of the inn and ran to their room. He gathered his bags, left some clothing behind to save weight. Kept his money. He was in the stables next, mounting and holding Iggy tightly against him. He wasted no time in fleeing the village, though he was blocked by others fleeing for the same reason.

 

Comanche fought him, and Alfred turned to see the first flames begin to rise in the town. Something gripped him, deep in his chest, making him sick, and he tore his eyes from the town and paid attention to the horse. Comanche jerked and turned, and Alfred tried to still him. He couldn't fathom what was bothering Comanche; the fires were still far away. He turned his head, and his eyes widened slightly. There was a body, slumped under a tree. It was pale, far too pale, and when he was finally thrown from Comanche's back, he had time to briefly think of it.

 

Alfred hit a tree and fell, landing painfully on the ground. Comanche had stopped moving, and he slowly bent his fingers, trying to clench a fist. Something hurt, a lot. He squinted towards the body, and he wondered why the angel had lost its wings. Then he realized something.

 

Iggy wasn't crying.


	10. Chapter 10

The silence was suffocating, and Alfred felt fear grip him. He rolled over and groaned, a pain in his lower back almost blinding him as he looked around. Iggy. He had to find Iggy.

 

Alfred clenched and unclenched his fingers, then slowly pushed himself to his knees. Comanche was still, and Alfred thought briefly about grabbing him. He reached a hand out for the reins that hung from the horse's neck, and then he saw him.

 

Iggy wasn't moving. The child was under a shrub, and Alfred gaped. He caught himself after a moment, and he crawled towards the bush. He was careful as he reached out to Iggy, and his fingers shook. He didn't dare move him. Instead, he pulled at the branches, tearing and pushing them away from Iggy so that he could tend to him without moving him. Alfred didn't know what to do. The boy before him was so small, and Comanche was tall. The fall must've been at least six feet, and if he had hit his head-

 

Alfred was in pain from the fall. He couldn't imagine how Iggy felt.

 

If Iggy were breathing.

 

“Iggy?” Alfred whispered fearfully. He touched Iggy's face. He was warm. Had to be alive. He leaned over and tried to see the rises of his chest, but there was nothing. He tried to remember Matt. He had saved one of their friends from drowning, when he had stopped breathing. How the hell had he done it?

 

The now-wingless angel stirred, and Alfred was torn. Could the angel help him? He had to. The angel had to be able to do _something_. But, he didn't want to leave Iggy alone, even for an instant. It all infuriated him, yet brought him despair. He was a fighter. He was a hero. And he didn't know how to help a little kid.

 

“Ngh.” The angel opened his eyes, and Alfred looked back at him. There was no light in those eyes. They were empty, lifeless. But the angel was trying to move, and talk.

 

Alfred wasn't sure where to look. From the child before him, to the distressed angel behind, everyone needed his help. But  _he_ needed help, to help Iggy. He leaned down over the child and tried to remember what Matthew had done, those years before. He pressed down on his chest, tried to breath life into him, covering the boy's mouth with his own.

 

“He's gone.” Hoarse. The angel's voice was hoarse, and different. It was pained, no longer holding the rich tones of before. “The boy's gone.”

 

“He's not,” Alfred snapped, leaning down once more. He tried to force him to take air, and then moved to compress his chest again. “I can save him. He just needs to breath!”

 

“His neck,” the hoarse voice supplied, sounding weaker with every passing moment. “The neck...”

 

Alfred hesitantly looked up, and what he saw made him want to vomit. There was a lump, in the side of his neck. He didn't want to see it. He didn't want to acknowledge that it was there. It was a terrible thing, the proof of an end. An end he didn't want.

 

“No,” Alfred murmured, and he let his fingers cup Iggy's chin. “Iggy? Iggy, don't. Don't go. We're not done having fun, right?”

 

But the child didn't answer him. Alfred stared at him for a long time with wide eyes, and then he clenched them shut and lowered his forehead to Iggy's tiny chest. He couldn't cry. Couldn't let himself cry. But his eyes hurt, and the boy before him was so small, and so still. He wanted to curl in on himself, but he couldn't do that. But everything else seemed so unimportant.

 

“I'm sorry,” the angel said, and Alfred swallowed. His throat was dry. He suddenly felt very alone, and the forest around them seemed so much bigger. “Can't stay here,” the angel continued, and Alfred raised his head slowly. “Can hear th' people. Screamin'. Gettin' closer.” When Alfred stayed still, the angel shifted his lightless eyes and watched him. “Y' can't take th' body. There's nothin' inside it.”

 

“I thought you were going to protect him,” Alfred mumbled. “I know you followed us. You got mad, so you let 'im die?”

 

The angel said nothing, and when Alfred finally looked at him, he was struck by his expression. Confusion and shock. “Wha'?”

 

Alfred looked back at Iggy. “Can you move?”

 

“Don't...”

 

“Right.” Alfred had never felt so dirty and useless. He had to tear himself from Iggy's side, and he carefully stood. His back ached, and he looked at the man on the ground. He had no name (probably). He couldn't move. He probably wasn't the angel from before. He couldn't stay here, but Alfred didn't know how he would move him. He took Comanche's reins and tugged, pulling him along behind him. He walked slowly to the man, trying not to be slowed by his limp. The man didn't show any expression as Alfred approached. He didn't do anything. He just followed him with his eyes.

 

“I'm taking you with me,” Alfred told him. He ignored the pain in his back and leaned over, then lifted the man.

 

He was surprisingly light. Alfred pushed the man up into the saddle and tried to straighten him in place, to keep him from falling. He followed slowly, wincing when he stretched himself to adjust his seat. The man had slumped over, and Alfred hesitated before he urged Comanche to move on.

 

Every step travelled felt like surrender, and Iggy's face haunted his vision.

 

* * *

 

Alfred used Iggy's old blankets to cover the man when they travelled, and when they found a room at an inn. He had claimed it was his sister behind the dark folds, that she was tired. No one asked questions, and Alfred had been able to carry the man to the room they had found.

 

Then he had sat on his bed and stared at the wall, ignoring the man on the other bed. Alfred didn't know what to do with himself. He had left Iggy behind. He had betrayed the child. He had promised to protect him, but the child had lost his life. Because of his mistake. He had been unable to control Comanche when it mattered, and the child was gone.

 

“Wasn't your fault,” the man on the other bed offered. Alfred didn't speak aloud, but he disagreed completely. It _was_ his fault. All of it.

 

“I'll get somethin' t' eat.” Alfred left the room for the tavern, intent on grabbing ale and food to take back. He tried not to think of anything, but the overwhelming guilt had sunk its teeth in him. He ordered food quickly, and took the bag offered. He kept his head down, so it was a surprise when he saw the poster on the wall.

 

Alfred stared at the paper on the wall before him. He stepped aside when someone brushed past him, then he tore the poster from the wall and rolled it up. He shoved it in his bag and ran back to the inn. The guy in his room was a mystery, but the poster could probably clear a few things up. Maybe.

 

He ignored the innkeeper as he hurried up the stairs and down the hall, and he burst into his room. The man was sitting against the headboard of the bed, staring out the window. Alfred unrolled the poster, and pointed at the picture.

 

“Arthur,” Alfred said. “That's your name, isn't it?”

 

The man stared at him. His eyes bothered Alfred, and he slowly shook his head. Alfred looked from the poster to the man, deflating. Looking closer, it was impossible for them to be the same. This person was so thin and weak. There could be no connection.

 

“You're trying to distract yourself from the child's loss,” the man murmured. “I promise; it wasn't your fault.”

 

“You can't trust promises,” Alfred muttered, and he dug the food from the bag. He dropped some on the man's bed and returned to his own, where he sat down and began to eat.

 

They didn't speak. The night passed with Alfred trying to hide himself in his blankets, trying to forget everything. The man made no sounds. He slept little, and stared out the window. There were a few times that he attempted to stand, but his efforts ended in a fall to the floor. He ended up slumped against his bed, disoriented and angry. He wasn't sure where the anger came from. Maybe it was the helplessness he felt. Maybe it was because he didn't know where he came from. He knew nothing of his past, save for brief memories. However, he could remember some things, that didn't seem to belong. Riding a horse. Sleeping beside a fire. Facing his enemy.

 

Red eyes. Or maybe green. He didn't know. Blue? He just remembered the cold, and the suffocating presence of an enemy. He had run. And he had disappeared.

 

Alfred stirred before the sun could rise above the distant trees, and the American stared at the ceiling. He didn't move for a long time.

 

“If it makes you feel any better, the body wasn't real,” the man offered.

 

“The soul was.” Alfred slowly sat up. He rubbed his eyes with a fist, then turned his eyes to the man on the floor. “What're you doing?” He slid from his bed and walked over. “Still can't walk?” When the man didn't answer, Alfred pulled him up and set him on the bed. Alfred stood over the man and thought. He watched as the man stared back out the window, and he crossed his arms. “Why d'you think the body was fake?”

 

“It felt like dirt.” The man loosely crossed his arms.

 

“How do you know that?” Alfred mumbled, and he looked over. The man shrugged and groaned. He fell over onto his side and looked towards the window.

 

“You're being followed,” the man muttered. “You should leave.”

 

“What about you?” Alfred wondered. The man shrugged.

 

“I'll manage.”


	11. Chapter 11

The man had refused a name. He had said that nothing sounded right to him, and that he would rather be nameless than uncomfortable.

 

Alfred had carted him out of the inn the day before, covered in blankets and passed off as his sister. Then they had headed out. They had no destination; Alfred decided to find bounties on their way. The stranger, on the other hand, had nowhere to go, and nothing to do.

 

Alfred had insisted (to himself) that the man was a sign. Where Iggy's life was lost, this man's life was saved. It didn't make him feel any better, but it gave him reason to keep going. He could help the man live, and use his own life for something worthwhile.

 

But while he rode with the man, he began to doubt himself. He had ventured to England to explore the world, and find adventure and excitement. He had found a little boy, and he had lost him. Adventure seemed like a far-off dream. Nights were spent by a campfire with a man who could barely move his legs. A man that had no interest in small talk.

 

Alfred needed to talk. He needed something to get his mind off the child he had left behind in the forest. He was trying to forget, but he wanted to remember at the same time. When the man opposite him listened and didn't interrupt, or try to contribute to the conversation, Alfred felt fine. When the man snapped at him for snoring too loud, or for acting like a “dolt”, Alfred accepted it. Deep down, he felt he deserved it. He deserved every thing thrown at him, because he had failed that little boy.

 

They were settled in for the night when it happened. Alfred woke to a shout from his travelling partner, and his fingers wrapped around the revolver he had under his pillow. He sprang from the blankets, but then he stopped.

 

The angel stood above the man, the confusion in his eyes mirrored in the dull eyes below, and shock on both of their identical faces. Alfred let the hammer slide slowly back into the chamber, careful not to drop it lest he accidentally shoot one of the two across from him.

 

“You've found another interesting companion,” the angel murmured. His hand moved towards the man on the ground, but the doppleganger pushed himself back along the ground and away from the angel.

 

“What're you doin' here?” Alfred finally found his voice, and he glared at the winged figure. “I told you-”

 

“You have terrible taste in travel partners.” The angel never looked away from the man on the ground. “First a cursed child, and now a man with only-”

 

“What d'you mean, 'cursed'?” Alfred demanded. “I-”

 

“The boy was doomed to die from the beginning. That was his fate.”

 

“I-”

 

“The fall didn't kill him.” The angel turned his eyes back from the man, and he looked to Alfred. “I don't believe you realize what you've gotten yourself into, but if you hope to ever end the cycle, then I have one suggestion. _Travel north._ ”

 

“Pretty fucking vague,” Alfred grumbled, unwilling to take advice from an angel that was obviously cracked. It was true. The angel had changed since their last meeting (which hadn't ended well anyways). He wasn't glowing as brightly anymore, and his wings didn't carry the luster that they had in the beginning. His eyes shone, but they no longer held the innocence from the beginning. They were darker, colder, and Alfred didn't trust them.

 

But apparently, the man on the ground _did_. He nodded slowly, agreeing with the angel despite the obvious distrust that shone from the depths of his eyes.

 

“We're not-”

 

“You have no destination,” the angel interrupted. “No decisions to make, no people to meet. You are wandering without reason or purpose. Why not go?” The angel paused, then shrugged his shoulders. “But, I know there are times when people lose their way. They can no longer be the hero they once aspired to be. I suppose that realizing you can't become your dream bothers you. In which case, you should return home. Maybe you can be a hero among familiar faces, without trying to win over the people of another place. It's easier that way.”

 

The angel was gone just as soon as he had appeared. Alfred stared at the spot his head had formerly occupied, trying to make sense of the words. With every word that he filtered back through his mind, he felt his chest growing tighter and tighter, more constricted with each passing thought. He wondered if it was rage. Rage, that the angel would _dare_ to insult him so. Rage that the angel blew him off, like a boring plaything. He was enraged by the angel's voice, the haughty attitude that had appeared seemingly overnight.

 

And successfully manipulated to do the angel's bidding.

 

* * *

 

“I don't know if this is the way to do things.”

 

“It's cool. I've done this kind of thing before.”

 

The green-eyed man looked doubtful as Alfred searched through the trees, dragging Comanche behind him and watching the animal in the forest. He held a rope in his hand, the large loop trembling slightly in his excited fingers. He released the other rope that was tied to Comanche, and shooed him through the trees.

 

Comanche went unwillingly. He looked back over his broad shoulder and watched Alfred warily before following the animal through the trees, and Alfred followed. He took a step whenever Comanche did, and stopped when he stopped. He let Comanche lead, and waited eagerly for the animal in the forest to turn his head. When the animal moved its body to the side, Alfred raised the rope above his head and swung slowly. Comanche jerked forward, his large head blocking Alfred from the other animal, and Alfred let the rope fly.

 

The stray horse's head jerked back when the rope fell over its neck, and Alfred was dragged through the underbrush as it tried to flee. He dug in his heels and Comanche followed, jumping small logs and keeping his head by Alfred's side. Alfred tried to pull back with his hand to loop the rope around the horn of the saddle, but tripped when his leg got caught under a log. He toppled to the ground and slid slightly, but then the horse stopped.

 

The horse looked conflicted. There was a horse present, a possible herd to join; however, there was also a human. A human holding the rope around its neck. The horse tossed its head half-heartedly, and Alfred took advantage of the hesitation he saw. He wound the rope around the horn of the saddle, and he waited.

 

The horse's attempts to flee grew weaker and weaker. Alfred waited until it only tossed its head, then he slowly slid his hand down the rope and approached it. He kept his steps light and slow, and examined the horse carefully.

 

The “it” was a “she”, for one. And “she” looked insulted by the fact that she had been caught in a trap. She watched Alfred warily as he approached, and snorted at him in indignation. He could see that she had been used as a saddle horse before. Or she had a least had an owner. There was a slight mark on her cheek, where she had been rubbed from either a rope, a bridle, or a halter. She wasn't afraid of him; she looked more like she was insulted by his presence. Alfred moved slowly to pull her along, but she didn't appear to mind it. She trotted along behind him, snorting at Comanche as though she had been betrayed. Comanche flicked his ears and followed the two back out to where the man was waiting on the edge of the trees.

 

“See? I've done this before. I'm awesome at it.”

 

“Which is why you were dragged?” The man picked at a piece of bark on a stick in his hand. “Seems like something _very_ safe.”

 

Alfred rubbed his neck with his free hand. “Well... There aren't many trees where I've done it. It was mostly desert. Y'know, sand and more sand.”

 

The man didn't continue the conversation. He poked at a leaf on the ground beside him, making a point to avoid looking towards the American. Alfred huffed at that, but decided to spend his energy elsewhere; namely, on working with their newly acquired horse.

 

The man watched silently as Alfred pulled a spare halter from Comanche's saddle and introduced it to the mare. She snorted at him and turned her head when he raised it to her head, and Alfred had to follow her. The man returned to poking at a leaf, knowing that the great battle between the two would be long and boring. The mare apparently agreed with him, and she wandered away from Alfred as he tightened the rope around her neck to pull her back. She went unwillingly, snorting at Comanche expectantly.

 

Comanche, of course, did nothing and began to pull leaves from a tree. Alfred dropped the rope around the mare's neck and stepped on it, holding her in place while he stripped the saddle from his stud's back and plopped it on the mare. She turned her head away but did nothing else, and Alfred tightened the cinch.

 

“She had an owner,” Alfred said, looking towards the bored stranger. “Bet she was ridden. She's probably remembering how things work now.” Alfred pulled her head back and pulled the halter on her, then tied a rope to either side. He put a foot in one stirrup and leaned, but she didn't react to the additional weight. Heartened by her lack of a negative reaction, he mounted and settled himself in. “Regular old saddle horse,” Alfred said proudly, and then she swung her head around. Comanche watched her, and her body tensed. Alfred blinked, and then she let loose a squeal of indignation. Comanche bolted at the action and Alfred was tossed from her back like a sack of potatoes. She didn't run; she sauntered over to the stranger, and took the offered leaf in his hand.

 

“What an idiot,” the man grumbled, and the mare nodded her head enthusiastically. Alfred had snagged Comanche's rope and looked back with a frown. “I know. He is heavy, isn't he? You haven't seen him eat, poor thing. Of course you don't want him on your back.”

 

“Not nice to talk about people behind their backs,” Alfred pointed out, but the man simply shrugged.

 

“I'm not talking behind your back; I'm saying it right in front of you. Isn't that right, Grace?”

 

Alfred narrowed his eyes quizzically. “ _Grace?_ ”

 

“Well, what were you planning on calling her?” the man asked, raising his eyes. “I imagine it was childish, whatever it was.”

 

“Princess isn't-”

 

“I rest my case.” The man rubbed the mare's forehead and tore a handful of grass from the earth, raising it before him for the horse. The mare was gentle as she lifted the blades of grass from his hand and chewed, and she nudged him with her nose. The man let her, and simply grabbed another handful of grass for her to chew on. She seemed quite content to stay where she was, threatening Alfred with a kick when he tried to approach them. Alfred huffed at the action.

 

“Well, what th' hell am I s'pposed to do with this?” he demanded, and the man shrugged.

 

“You'll figure something out.”


	12. Chapter 12

Alfred was sure that he was supposed to hate his travel partner. The man (he had begun to refer to him as “Brows” in his head) was obviously set against him somehow. Alfred had planned on using Grace as a riding horse, and had decided to let Brows ride Comanche while he trained Grace. But, of course, Grace hated him with a passion. And Brows, who couldn't walk three steps without face-planting in the dirt, had mounted the bitch with ease, bum legs and all, and the mare had _let him_. Hell, she practically babied him when he was on her back, moving smoothly and carefully, her steps light and quick. And she glared at Alfred when she did it, and he was sure that they were forming some kind of “anti-hero” club behind his back.

 

Alfred wanted to be happy for Brows, but he was rather irked by the entire thing. He didn't feel that leaving Brows behind was the right thing to do, but the guy knew how to piss him off without trying. He couldn't find any real reason to keep him around, but he didn't feel right leaving him behind. Never-ending cycle, and things like that.

 

“I thought going north meant it got colder,” Alfred grumbled, and Brows looked back at him. Grace snorted. “Why th' hell is the temperature _going up_?”

 

“I think it's a desert,” Brows grumbled. He was probably right. There weren't as many trees or vegetation anymore, and it was getting kind of sandy. There was no topsoil for planting anything, and- “You have the map, where's the next town?” Brows demanded. Alfred grumbled under his breath as he dug through the bags hanging from his saddle, and he unfolded the small sheet of paper.

 

“Ashwood is the closest _big_ town,” Alfred muttered. “There are a few smaller ones nearby, but Ashwood would probably have a store where we could get another saddle or something. They'd definitely have an inn.”

 

“And how long-”

 

“Five hours.”

 

Brows stopped speaking. He narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms, wiggling slightly on Grace's back so that he threatened to fall.

 

“Hold on to her mane! Jesus, what the hell is wrong with you?” Alfred demanded with a grimace. “All I need is for you to break your head, too.”

 

Brows grumbled something and complied, twisting his fingers into the coarse hair of Grace's mane. Alfred stared ahead and swallowed, determined not to look back.

 

* * *

 

“I'm getting sick of playing the role of your sister,” Brows said as soon as he was dropped on the bed in the inn. Alfred tried to ignore his complaints, instead looking through a stack of papers that he had gathered from the innkeeper.

 

“Why north?” Alfred grumbled. “It's a frigging wasteland, not a-”

 

“There's a seer in the north,” Brows muttered, picking at the blanket on his bed.

 

“Because we really need a fucking see- what?”Alfred looked up, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean by that?”

 

“Mean by what?” Brows looked confused.

 

“Seer. What d'you mean, there's a seer in the north?”

 

“Well, there is.” Brows looked towards a table by the door, where a mug was set against the wall.

 

“I don't- _how do you know_?”

 

Brows hesitated. He dropped his gaze to the hands he held in his lap, and he shrugged. “Don't know,” he mumbled, and Alfred stood up. The American stood above Brows, and he looked down at him curiously.

 

“What else do you know?” Alfred demanded, and he plopped down on Brows's bed. “I mean, if you know about the seer, then you must know about the-”

 

“I don't know,” Brows growled, and Alfred leaned closer.

 

“Where's the seer?”

 

“Lancet.”

 

“Where's Lancet?”

 

“I don't know!” Brows hit Alfred, knocking him from the bed. The action seemed to surprise both of them, and Brows stared at his hand. He flexed his fingers, and Alfred's expression of surprise changed to one of agitation.

 

“Can you walk, too?” Alfred snapped. “Is this a fucking game or something?”

 

“You think I like being carted around on your back like a doll?” Brows retorted. “Why the hell would I fake an injury?”

 

“You don't have any scars, no visible injuries, no _nothing_ that would mean you can't walk! What were you doing there? Why were you in the woods where he died? Why the hell are you here? Do you even know how you-”

 

“Shut up!” Brows looked way, glaring at the wall. His figure trembled slightly with anger, and he swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat, and Alfred narrowed his eyes. “I drowned. That's all I know. I fell, and I drowned.”

 

“You drowned? But you're still-”

 

“I drowned.”

 

Alfred leaned against the wall and didn't bother to pull himself off the floor. He had thought the guy was the angel, but he wasn't. The angel had drowned. This guy had drowned. Massive, inhuman eyebrows. Same green eyes, but one had light while the other didn't.

 

“What are you?” Alfred blurted, and Brows looked back at him. “I mean...” Alfred looked away, and he tried to organize his thoughts. “God... Brows, you-”

 

“ _Brows?_ ” Brows stared at him, then began to yank at the blankets under him. He almost fell off the bed while he tried to yank them up over him. “What the hell is wrong with you? Iggy, Princess, _Brows?_ You insufferable fucking _git_.” Brows finally yanked the blanket up over him, and he hid himself under it before Alfred could react.

 

Alfred blinked. He wanted to say something, but he couldn't begin to decide on what he wanted to ask. He couldn't remember ever talking about Iggy (or at least saying his name). He wanted to get Brows's attention back, but the other was already sleeping, pointedly ignoring him.

 

Maybe the seer thing wasn't a bad idea.

 

* * *

 

“Fucking hot,” Alfred moaned. He fanned himself with a pad of paper and narrowed his eyes at the desert that spread out before him. There seemed to be a haze above the ground, and the air contorted and twisted, making the sands seem to move.

 

An endless expanse of reds and oranges. They had been in the desert for almost a week, fighting through loose sand and drifts to get to the northernmost part of the island nation. The nights were cold, the days hot, and everything was silent. Brows refused to speak to Alfred, and Alfred had to settle with talking to himself. He didn't remember half of what he talked about, but he could see a vein pulsing in Brows's neck that became more and more obvious with each passing day, until the man was red in the face. He was probably really mad, and they were both thinking that their arrival in Lancet would be one of the best things that could happen. They wanted to get off the horses, and away from each other.

 

Sadly, when they finally reached Lancet, they found that it wasn't quite what they expected. People had said the town was small.

 

And by small, they meant three buildings. A barn. A shack. And a small dilapidated house.

 

The riders stared at the buildings, and Alfred wondered aloud if they were looking at a mirage. Brows gave him a dark look before urging Grace on, and Alfred followed behind slowly. Dust blew past with a gust of wind, and Alfred raised a hand to keep it from his eyes.

 

A woman stood in the doorway of the house. She had her hand over her eyes to block out the sun, and her face was contorted in confusion. When the horses came closer, the woman walked out to meet them.

 

“B'n a long time,” the woman said, her voice rising in pitch as she spoke. “Nev'h thought I'd see y' ag'n.'

 

Alfred and Brows looked at each other in confusion, though Alfred's confusion was mostly because of the accent. He could barely understand the woman, and looked up at Brows for a sign.

 

Unfortunately, Brows couldn't offer anything. The woman walked straight to him and slapped the horse on the neck, then ran her fingers through Grace's mane.

 

“B'n a few years,” she continued. “Though' with th' uprisin' an' all, you'd b' long gone b' now.” The woman continued, her words making no sense to the two men, and then she took a closer look at Brows. Her eyebrows shot up under her bangs, and she grabbed at his wrist. “Oh,” she said, her fingers wrapped around his forearm and her eyes locked on his face. “Oh my.”

 

“You know 'im?” Alfred demanded, and the woman looked back at him. “Seriously? Y-”

 

“Bring 'im inside,” she ordered, and she turned back to the house. Her skirt whipped in the wind, and Brows didn't have a chance to protest before Alfred yanked him from the saddle and dragged him in the house. He dumped Brows on a couch before going back out to put the horses in the barn.

 

Inside, the woman was staring at Brows and running her fingers through the hair of a large dog. Brows tried to rearrange himself in the chair he had been dropped on, and the woman watched him. Every move he made, every noise he made—she was confused and worried.

 

“What happened?” she asked, and he looked up at her. “This happened a while 'go. What'd y' go playin' with mages an' whatnot for? I tol' you they weren't safe.” She sighed. “Pro'lly don' even know. Got y' by s'prise, di'n't they? Poor basta'd.”

 

“Do I know you?” Brows asked, and the woman nodded.

 

“Y' do.” She stood and walked towards the fireplace, the dog trotting along behind her. “An' I hafta ask: what happened?”

 

Brows watched her as she stared at the unlit logs, and she passed it to a small table. There were various jars and bowls arranged in a circle, and he shifted. “I don't...”

 

“What d'you remember? Las' thing?”

 

She never looked back at him, and neither paid Alfred any mind when he entered the house.

 

“I drowned,” Brows offered hesitantly.

 

“Drowning in a blue light,” the woman said, her voice suddenly loud and clear. “Yet you lived. Did you know that when the soul splits from the body, there is a moment of clarity? Life, the universe, everything becomes clear. There is ice and pain, clarity and knowledge, and then nothing.” She reached into a bowl and stirred the green sand within. “But you never experienced that clarity. You had no knowledge. Nothing. The soul may have left the body, but it also left itself. It _split_.”

 

“Split?” Alfred frowned and dropped down into a chair. “What the hell does that mean?”

 

“The soul just _split_. Away from the body, away from itself.” She sighed. “But I've gotten old. My daughter is better at this sort of thing. But she's wandering in the south now.”

 

“Why would a soul just... split?” Alfred asked. He leaned back in the chair and stared at the old woman, caught somewhere between doubt and concern.

 

“Because 'e's cursed, o' course.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

She served tea. Brows took it carefully, mindful of how weak his grip was. The woman watched him closely as he drank, ignoring as Alfred stared at the cup that had been placed in his hands.

 

“You're not farin' well 'gainst this enemy,” she told Brows, her tiny hands helping him raise the cup to his lips. “You're lucky to be alive, Arthur.”

 

Brows narrowed his eyes at her, and she shushed him before he could speak. “Th' Danes did it, I'm sure. They may no' believe, but they're not stupid. They'd do whatever they c'n to keep you out o' their way, even if it meant goin' to sorcerers and witches. You're the heir to th' throne, they don' wanna take chances.”

 

Alfred set his tea down on the small table before him, and he looked over. “ _He's_ that missing prince?”

 

“Don't shout,” the woman chided. “The Danes allies may hear.” She never looked back at Alfred when she spoke. Instead she kept her eyes locked on Brows ( _Arthur_ ), and her voice seemed to take on a certain urgency. “You're vulnerable, Arthur. You're weak, and if they find you like this, they'll kill you. You need th' rest of your soul back. Now, have you met anyone in your travels?”

 

Arthur shrugged, but Alfred spoke up. “There's an angel that looks just like him.”

 

“Not good.” The woman took the cup from Arthur and set it down. “I'm sure tha' angel has a strong sense o' self preservation. It won't be easy.”

 

“What won't be easy?” Alfred pressed, and she swallowed.

 

“Kill the angel, and release the soul. Bu' I'm sure 'e won't want you close. He'll know. He'll know you're not safe.”

 

Alfred didn't answer her, and she scurried back into her tiny kitchen, digging through cupboards and rummaging through drawers. “Find 'im. Y' have t' kill him. No excuses. We need Arthur back, t' win th' war.”

 

Alfred had stood and followed her, casting a wary glance back at his companion. “Because he's the prince.”

 

“Because 'e's Arthur.” The woman looked at him then, and he hesitated. “Arthur's special t' us. Y' can't _begin_ t' understand. Protect him, and help him.”

 

* * *

 

She gave them food and water for the journey south, warning them against attacks. Alfred had received one last meaningful look before she had sent them on their way, petting Grace's nose before disappearing back into her tiny home.

 

“Maybe we should go to the capital,” Alfred offered in the first hours, but Arthur had shaken his head.

 

“Why would an angel wander around the capital?”

 

Alfred hadn't answered, and the topic had been dropped.

 

It was a hopeless quest. They would hear steps in the sand around them, but nothing would be found when they tried to look. Birds would flock to them and leave, and then they would be on their way in the early morning, trying to travel through the heat without collapsing. Alfred was sure that they had been followed by wolves and coyotes at times, but he couldn't prove it, and he didn't want to.

 

It took more than a week to pass the capital, and Alfred stopped to enter the old tavern outside the city walls. He had wanted information, but there had been none to take.

 

However, it was easy to see that the capital had been taken. Soldiers with unfamiliar emblems marched around the distant walls, and within the tavern was blood and death. The old keeper had passed by way of a sword, and his body had been deposited behind the counter with little regard to how he would be found, or cared for in death.

 

Alfred had searched through the back room for water and a blanket, and he had covered the deceased with the blanket before returning to Arthur outside the tavern's walls.

 

“We're going to the forest,” was all that Alfred said before they were racing through the plains and fields, searching for a place to stay and hide. Alfred would forever deny that he was running away in fear, but what else could he feel when he was in a country under attack, travelling with the man that was wanted most by the enemy?

 

They were forced to stop twenty miles outside the capital. Alfred wanted nothing more than to keep running, to get as much distance between them and the castle, but he wasn't so blinded by emotion that he couldn't see what the journey was doing to Arthur. The man didn't complain about the journey, but his eyes were sunken with exhaustion. Even the sarcasm from before had suffered, and Arthur remained silent. His eyes held malice and contempt, but behind the hatred was a weakness, possibly a self-loathing. Alfred didn't know what to call it, and wasn't sure if he really _was_ seeing something in that expression. He could have been imagining it, but the fact remained that they had to stop.

 

The small grove of trees they found themselves in was thick and hard to penetrate. Alfred shoved trees to and fro to make space for the horses to pass, and then he had to check to be sure that no one would notice the small path they had made. It took almost an hour to reach the innermost part of the grove, and once there they had to make a small clearing to sleep. The horses were relieved of their burdens and tied to trees, and Alfred removed the packs from the saddles and pulled out blankets and jerky. Arthur sat on the ground, letting Grace pushed her nose against his hand, and Alfred sat down across from him.

 

“They got into the capital.”

 

“I could see.”

 

The two were silent, and Alfred dug back through the packs for more food. “We should eat and get to sleep. We need to get farther away.”

 

“I know.”

 

Alfred looked at Arthur in silence as the other slowly began to eat, and he sighed. “How are we going to find her daughter?”

 

“Who said we were going to?” Arthur looked up and frowned.

 

“She can help. The old lady said she was better, and-”

 

“There's no reason for me to find her,” Arthur snapped, and he ate quickly. “I'm going to bed. Do what you want.” Arthur finished his meager meal and laid on the blanket Alfred had set out for him. He turned away from Alfred in the darkness, and Alfred stared at his back in silence.

 

* * *

 

Someone was moving.

 

Alfred's eyes were wide open, and he stared into the darkness. His heart pounded in his chest, and a hand worked its way up slowly press against his chest, in a futile gesture to silence it.

 

A branch cracked, and Arthur shifted in his sleep. Silence, and Alfred reached out to the man, one hand moving for the holster that lay with his coat, while his other hand moved to Arthur and his arm fell over him. He pulled Arthur closer, trying not to make a sound. His free hand gently pushed his jacket away to uncover his gun, and he pulled it to himself. Arthur didn't move except to shift closer, his head pressing against Alfred's chest. He started to sigh, but Alfred quickly clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound.

 

Whatever was in the trees continued walking, but Alfred didn't relax until hours later, when the sounds were long gone and the darkness was impenetrable. He let his hands fall slack, and tried to sleep despite his racing heart.

 

* * *

 

Arthur felt warm.

 

It was a strange feeling. He had felt an icy grip on his body since waking, disoriented, in that forest with the American. The desert may have been hot, but it hadn't penetrated his skin to warm to cold organs and bones within. This heat was strange to him, in that it seemed to seep into his skin and heart. It was a comfortable warmth, and there was a brief flash of _something_ in his head, some memory. He tried to burrow deeper into the warmth, like a newborn to light, trying to make sense of what ran through his mind. A woman cried out in his memory, but then the memory changed, to something more peaceful.

 

“ _No.” Iggy pressed against Alfred's chest, trying to move him away. “No, Ahfwed!”_

 

“ _Iggy, you need to clean up! Look, the lake's fine so-”_

 

“ _No, Ahfwed!” Iggy pressed again, harder, and Alfred laughed._

 

“ _Look, you'll ride Comanche after, you just have t-”_

 

The warmth moved, and Arthur opened his eyes.

 

Large blue orbs looked back at him. Alfred was watching him, and Arthur had half a mind to push at him, to separate them.

 

But while his brain demanded he push away, something else inside him desired the warmth that seemed to be in that place. He chose a compromise; he didn't move closer, but he didn't move away either.

 

Neither spoke, nor did they make a move to leave. They just watched each other, and when Arthur decided that he'd had enough, he closed his eyes. There were no sounds, and Arthur took a deep breath. The horses shifted where they were tied, and Alfred leaned closer.

 

“Stay here,” Alfred breathed, almost so that Arthur couldn't hear him.

 

Then Alfred was gone, slipping through the trees silently.

 

Arthur opened his eyes, and he felt a pain in his chest. It was like he had been running, fleeing something, his lungs burning up and-

 

 

* * *

 

Every cracking branch was like a gun shot. Alfred slipped through trees and shrubs, needing to know what was out there. He hoped it was a deer. A deer would be nice. If it was a deer, he wouldn't need to use the gun held in his hand. He wouldn't have to watch the wings fall to the ground with their owner, without breath or movement.

 

If it was a deer, he could let it live. 

 

Alfred looked through the trees, and his worst fears were realized when he saw the white robes, and the feathery appendages on the angel's back. He grit his teeth and set his jaw.  _He couldn't do this_ . Even as he thought, he was raising his gun slowly. He was aiming, and then the angel turned. 

 

_-Thock.-_

 

Silver feathers fluttered through the air, mixed with droplets of blood as the angel fell. The shaft of the arrow protruded from his chest, and Alfred's arm dropped. The gun was heavy, and he almost dropped it. He could only stare at the beauty that had once been, the beauty that was suddenly tainted with blood and death.

 

And someone walked through the forest behind the angel, a bow on his back and a scabbard of arrows hanging from his waist. Gilbert Beilschmidt looked rather pleased with his catch, and his red eyes fell on Alfred.

 

“Long time no see,” Gilbert greeted, the corners of his lips tilted upwards. “What happened to the brat?”

 

Alfred swallowed as Gilbert crossed over to the fallen angel, and Gilbert's expression seemed to change for a moment. “Oh. He uh...” When Alfred didn't say anything, he cleared his throat. “So you lost 'im... Sorry, man. I, uh, I don't know what to say.” Gilbert knelt beside the angel, and he stared at the dull green eyes, eyes that had once been filled with an unearthly light. It occurred to Alfred that Gilbert should be turning on him, for watching him murder such a person. But they both knew that no one would believe someone had killed an angel. 

 

“Sorry 'bout him,” Gilbert said when he stood. He looked back towards Alfred, and he shrugged. “He must've been your brother, right? I'm sorry, really. I know what it's like to lose a brother, and... I'm sorry.” Gilbert turned away, and Alfred looked back towards the angel. 

 

_Why?_


	14. Chapter 14

Alfred stared at the mass of blood and feathers, unable to form words. Something in the back of his mind wondered if forming words was a good thing or not, because what could be said to the sight before him? Nothing fit the situation, whatever it was.

 

Alfred swallowed, and he slowly walked forward and bent, reaching his hand out to the _thing_ before him. He couldn't call it a body, or a corpse; that would make the situation _real,_ despite how much he wished that nothing was real.

 

He wanted a dream. Alfred wanted everything to be a dream, and he wanted everything to be fake. He wanted to pretend that nothing had ever happened, and he didn't want to acknowledge that there was a serious problem.

 

Why had Gilbert shot the angel? Had he known that it had to be done, that the angel's death would ultimately help Arthur in the end? Or had there been more sinister reasons for the incident?

 

Alfred couldn't touch the angel sprawled out before him. Its breath had been lost when the point of the arrow had pierced his body. He may not have felt it. Alfred desperately hoped that that was the case; he couldn't imagine anything else.

 

Alfred didn't know _how_ long he stayed there, staring at the stains and tufts of feathers; all he knew was that he had left Arthur alone, and that the man was probably waiting for him. What else could he do? With no movement and little control over motor functions, Arthur was like a small child. He had left him _alone_ in his mad dash to find out what was happening, and he didn't want to know what would happen if Arthur was found by someone. The old lady had said that Arthur was royalty; royalty in a country being invaded by enemy forces, forces that wanted nothing more than to pluck the rulers from power and execute them before their people to prove a point.

 

Gilbert had been one of those people, still _was_ one of those people. The wanted poster said that he was hunting for the prince, and that prince was in the forest, unable to run if he was found, and unable to remember why he was so hated. Alfred was torn by the knowledge that he couldn't leave Arthur in the trees for much longer, but in going back to protect him, he would have to leave the angel behind.

 

The angel was dead. Just like Iggy had been. Once again, Alfred had to leave behind the body to keep Arthur safe and alive. He pulled himself from the sight before him and stumbled back, pushing at trees to steady himself as he ran. He scraped his hands and tore some skin off on a particularly rough surface, but he forced himself to ignore the sting and find his way back. Through trees and bushes that all looked the same, he struggled to remember where he had left Arthur, and how to return.

 

Every footfall terrified him during his mad dash through the woods. He feared a retaliation of sorts from an unknown enemy, a retaliation that would keep him from finding Arthur and kill him. Every trembling leaf sounded like the firing of a cannon, and he hurried his steps in a panic, desperate to find the man waiting for him.

 

The run took almost an hour, as he wove back and forth between trees and shrubs, disoriented in the darkness, and still shocked from the blood that stained the silver feathers. He pushed through the branches and ignored the blood that seeped from cuts and stained his hands, and then he stumbled to a stop.

 

Comanche shifted uneasily at the sudden appearance of his owner, and Alfred rested a hand on the horse's flank, leaning forward slightly to catch his breath. Comanche dropped his head low and licked at his lips, and Alfred peered uneasily around the horse's bulk so that he could see what ( _who_ ) lay beyond.

 

Arthur had taken all of the available blankets around him, and he shivered under the bulk of everything. He seemed to melt into the darkness with the blankets, and Alfred skirted around the horse and slowly knelt beside the mound. Arthur was definitely sleeping, but his sleep was strained, and his breathing shallow. Alfred gave a start at the revelation, but when he reached under the blankets to pull the man out and try to help him, it turned out that he _wouldn't_ be helping the other at all. Arthur's bony wrist had shot out when Alfred reached for him, and the slim fingers wrapped around Alfred's hand and pulled at him, urging him closer. Alfred didn't know what to do except to follow, and he let himself be pulled.

 

Arthur's grip was tight enough for Alfred's fingers to lose feeling, but his breathing was better. Alfred tried to concentrate on the fact that Arthur's breathing was better, instead of the fact that they were uncomfortably close, and that Arthur didn't appear to have any intention of releasing him. He settled with finding a more comfortable position, and tried to sleep through the knowledge that there were _things_ out there that wanted them both dead.

 

* * *

 

Arthur was sitting up when Alfred woke, and Alfred groaned when he tried to sit up. He was terribly sore, and his neck throbbed painfully because of the position he had been forced to sleep in.

 

“It's raining in Briar,” Arthur muttered, and Alfred squinted at him.

 

“Hungh?” Alfred slurred, and Arthur pulled his feet up with his hands, bending his knees and resting his chin on them.

 

“The rain will be here soon,” Arthur muttered, and he reached out towards Grace with a hand.

 

Alfred groped around in his bag for a pair of glasses, and he stretched his back as he did so to crack it. “How'd you know?” he asked, a yawning making his words swell.

 

“The air.” Arthur sighed and worked himself to his feet, making Alfred stop and stare. “It's very damp here. A bit warm, too. The rains'll come soon. We should leave.”

 

Alfred blinked and frowned, and then Arthur looked down at him.

 

“We need to go to Wells,” Arthur told him. “We'll find Chelles there. Among other things.”

 

“Who's Chelles?”

 

“The woman's daughter. Now let's go. We don't have time to waste.”

 

* * *

 

Arthur was _different._ Very different.

 

Gone was the man that had been dependent on Alfred's services. In his place was a silent man with a harsh look, someone that was obviously strict and uptight, possibly violent.

 

Alfred wasn't sure he liked the change. He had become exasperated with the feeble one at times, but he had _liked_ him. He had become used to the confusion and the sarcasm in the short time they had been together. He had thought it was funny, how the man would act calm and collected (and out of it) at one moment, and try to plot his destruction the next.

 

But the new Arthur was unreadable. He was demanding and curt, and Alfred found it difficult to even consider getting along with him. Alfred wondered if the change was because of the angel's death; after he thought about it, he wondered if knowing would really change anything. Even if the angel's death was important somehow, it wouldn't matter. Even if Arthur was normal again, he knew it wouldn't make the death any easier.

 

Death was death. Nothing could make it any better. Even if it did help Arthur, a life had been lost.

 

Alfred tried not to dwell on the thought, but the image of the angel being hunted and killed haunted him. He wished he could turn back time and save him, try to find another way to achieve their goal that didn't end in death, but that was impossible and Alfred wasn't naive enough to believe that he could change anything.

 

Arthur wanted to go to some port town in search of Chelles. Chelles, some girl he claimed to know. They rode for days, rarely stopping, always continuing on. It was a mad dash, and with each passing day Arthur became more and more frustrated and short with Alfred. He snapped and shouted when he did speak, something that made Alfred wonder if the silence was better.

 

They arrived in the port town in the middle of the night. When they had stepped onto the roads of town, Arthur had led him to an inn where they left their horses in the barn next door. Then they had moved inside, to the counter where a man watched them suspiciously.

 

Arthur slapped his hand down on the counter and glared at the man. “Chelles. Get her here now.”

 

“You have an appointment?” the man asked boredly.

 

“No.” Arthur looked down the hall and walked away. The man at the desk didn't follow, and Arthur pushed through a door. Alfred followed, and entered the room in time to hear Arthur say, “I knew it.”

 

Alfred could only stare as the black-haired woman sitting by a desk jerked back and looked up at Arthur with wide eyes. There was a child by her feet, and she blinked at Arthur.

 

“You're back,” she said, looking almost confused. When Arthur didn't answer her, she motioned to the child. “You felt him, didn't you?”

 

“I knew there was something here.” Arthur nodded and knelt beside the child. It turned back to look at him, and Alfred could see the large eyebrows that peeked out under tufts of hair. His jaw dropped, and he stepped into the room. Alfred pulled the door shut behind him.

 

The child could be Iggy's clone, except for the longer ears on the side of his head. Large green eyes watched the newcomers with suspicion, and Arthur prodded his forehead.

 

“Don't bother hiding anything from me,” the woman, Chelles, told them. “I can guess what's going on. This kid is _you_ , and you're here to take him back.”

 

“Correct.”

 

“I hate people like you.” Chelles sighed and pushed away the papers in front of her. “Always so demanding, just because you have a bit of magic in you. Mother may like you, but you can't fool me!” Chelles had stood, and she thrust her index finger at his chest. “I know what you are, Arthur Kirkland!”

 

Arthur shrugged. “I'm sure plenty of people know who I am.” He kept his eyes locked on the child. “Why do you think I'm in line for the throne?”

 

“Smug bastard.” Chelles pouted.

 

“Alfred, leave.”

 

Alfred tore his eyes from the child. “What?”

 

“Leave.” Arthur pulled the child closer and lifted him off the floor. “You don't need to be here for this.”

 

“But I-”

 

“Leave.”

 

Alfred reached back for the handle, and he pulled the door open and left. He hesitated before leaving, and when he heard a loud cry and a _thud_ , he fled.


	15. Chapter 15

Alfred remained outside the inn for what seemed like hours. He sat crouched against the stone walls, and stared blankly into the distance. The air was cold and chilled him to his bones, and he tried to ignore how it felt as though he had been dropped into the cold oceans from his home to freeze.

 

Another kid. Another little kid. Alfred couldn't understand why he had been forced into such a situation, where children and angels died to save the life of some tyrannical bastard.

 

Because that was what the new Arthur was. Alfred may have been unable to decide what he thought of the man during the ride, but now he knew exactly what he should think. The new Arthur was a tyrant and a beast, capable of killing small children in order to further his own ambitions. It didn't matter that the child had been a part of Arthur; the end had come swiftly, and Arthur had been all too willing to end that life.

 

Alfred couldn't deal with that. He had always been the hero; he couldn't let himself be pulled along with that demon of a man, who would kill small children and rebel against everything that was good. Even if he _was_ a prince, it didn't mean that he had the right to do what he wanted.

 

“Get inside.” Arthur's voice tore through Alfred's panicked thoughts, and he looked up at the man that stood in the doorway. “Sleep tonight; tomorrow we leave when the sun rises.”

 

“I'm not going with you,” Alfred snapped, pushing himself up to his feet. “You can do what you want alone, I'm not going to be a part of it!”

 

“You're already a part of it.” Arthur disappeared back inside the inn, calling out “Room 219” before he left Alfred alone.

 

Alfred seriously considered leaving. He had all of his gear. He had Comanche, and he could mount up and flee to the southern ports where he had originally arrived. He could escape from Arthur, and not have to look over his shoulder to see whether the “prince” was going to stab him in the back.

 

But heroes didn't run. That was the major flaw in Alfred's plan. He had been taught to protect people, and leaving them to an unknown fate at the hands of the invading enemy was something he couldn't turn away from. He thought of himself as a respectable person, and turning away from England was something he could not do.

 

It was with great regret that he finally entered the inn, and the keeper pointed down the hall. Chelles and Arthur were nowhere to be seen, which was just as well. He didn't want to meet them when he walked down the hall, scanning the numbers on the doors to find which room he was staying in. When he finally found it, he knocked. When he received no response, he entered the room, and looked around to be sure that Arthur really wasn't there. It was a relief to be able to rest without the man nearby, and he pulled off his shirt and boots before he climbed into the bed. He considered changing when he saw his bag by the door, but gave up on the thought. He laid down and turned over to face the wall, hoping desperately for sleep to claim him.

 

Sleep never came. Alfred clung to his blankets and kept his eyes clenched shut with the belief that the more he willed himself to sleep, the easier it would come. Instead, he lay there for hours, telling himself over and over that it would come. He tried to ignore the words outside his room, but when “war” passed through his ears, his eyes snapped open and he stilled.

 

The door to his room opened, and he hoped that whoever it was wouldn't realize that he was awake when the light of a candle entered the room. He seemed to be in luck, as the person that entered was too distracted by conversation to bother checking.

 

“Arthur, this's crazy and you know it,” Chelles hissed, her voice low. Alfred could hear something thump against the frame of the door, probably a hand.

 

“You expect me to run around like a dog with its tail between its legs while the country is invaded?” Arthur snapped. His voice wasn't as low as Chelles's, but he was obviously trying not to shout. He probably wanted Alfred to remain sleeping, and unaware of the conversation taking place. “Chelles, you may speak ill of your mother, but right now _you're_ the fool. Your mother understands the trouble this country is in, and-”

 

“My mother is a bat!”

 

“-she knows that there will _be_ no England if the enemy isn't confronted!”

 

A harsh clap of skin on skin. Alfred almost jumped when he heard it, and then the room fell into a tense silence. Alfred stared at the wall and counted in his head, _One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thou-_.

 

“You're in no condition to go to war,” Chelles whispered. There was something behind the harshness of her voice, something that Alfred couldn't identify.

 

Apparently Arthur _could_ identify it. There was a shifting of fabric, and Alfred wondered if they were hugging, or glaring daggers at one another. It seemed like the argument behind him could go either way.

 

“Arthur, you'll die if you go.”

 

“I won't.”

 

“You're not what you used to be!” Chelles pointed out. Her voice had risen slightly. “You could have done this three months ago, but not now! Everything that made you _you_ has been contorted and twisted! You're... You're a fragment of what you once were!”

 

“My soul is restored,” Arthur told her. “I'm as ready as I'll ever be.”

 

“Stay here!” Chelles insisted. “Let us protect you, and we'll prepare for-”

 

“The people need their king,” Arthur told her. “Briar has been taken, and the castle is occupied by the enemy. What hope do the people have, if their rulers will not stand up for them? I can't stay here; we both know this. My duty lies in the castle and with the people. I cannot remain in hiding while they suffer.”

 

“I would rather see you alive than dead,” Chelles sniffed, “as would the rest of the country.”

 

“And I would rather be fighting for freedom.”

 

“Selfish bastard.”

 

The room fell silent once more, and Alfred shut his eyes. There was movement by the other bed, and Arthur spoke again.

 

“I have allies,” Arthur whispered. “They are preparing. I will not be alone in this fight. Chelles, we have been acquainted a long time; I hope you know me well enough to trust my instincts.”

 

“Your instincts have been wrong half the time.”

 

“And the other half?” The blankets on the other bed shifted. “Give me those.” There was a shuffle, and then a weight fell on the other bed. “Goodnight, Chelles.”

 

A long silence. There was no movement, only the sound of breathing.

 

“Goodbye, Arthur.”

 

The door closed, and the light that had been inside disappeared. Arthur rummaged through blankets on his bed, and then all fell silent.

 

Alfred slept.

 

* * *

 

They left the inn before the sun rose.

 

Alfred yawned on Comanche's back, and Arthur adjusted the packs on the back of his saddle. Grace snorted and pawed at the ground, her hoof stirring up a cloud of fine brown dust, and Alfred sneezed.

 

There was no conversation. The two had eaten their miniscule breakfast in silence, then packed their bags and blankets. Bags of smoked and salted meat had been waiting outside the door of their room when they had woken in the early morning, and had been evenly distributed between the two. There was also the matter of the sword that had been leaning against the frame. Arthur had taken it and affixed it to the breastplate of his saddle, where he could grab it if in a tight situation. There had also been a pistol, but that was packed away in his bags and otherwise untouched.

 

Arthur adjusted the dull green cloak draped around his shoulders, and finally mounted. He took up the reins and shifted his hand to turn Grace in a small circle. He spoke the first words of the day, his features haggard in the light of the moon that hung low in the sky.

 

“We'll meet armies on our way,” he told Alfred. “Both mine and the enemy's. Stay sharp. Do not act afraid, no matter who we face. If the enemy turns on us, we must kill them. Leave none alive, or we will spell our own doom. I don't know how many days it will take to reach the capital; there are too many obstacles. We are safest at night, and at noon we rest in the forests. Do you understand?”

 

Alfred nodded, and Arthur hesitated. Grace struck out with a front leg and the king swallowed.

 

“Thank you,” Arthur said, and Alfred looked up quickly. “I need an ally.”

 

Alfred waited for more to be said, but Arthur urged his horse on and Alfred followed.

 

* * *

 

Arthur knew the lay of the land better than Alfred could have thought. It wasn't the experience of a person that travelled a lot; it was the experience of someone completely in tune with the land. He knew not only the direction and the terrain, but every stick and tree. It was almost as though Arthur was a part of the land, someone that knew everything there was to know about what existed in the lands he ruled over. He told Alfred where to step when he feared a hole in the ground, knew when a particularly strong gust of wind would sweep through and potentially knock a rider to the ground, and could feel the air and know when and where to take cover from rain or passing travellers. It was almost heartening to travel with the new Arthur. Where Alfred had stumbled before in his travels, Arthur flew, never tripping or pausing to determine which direction was to be taken.

 

Their pace was far faster than it had ever been before, though their path was far more dangerous. Arthur took them through what forests he could, avoiding the fields for fear of gaining the attention of enemies. Nine hours after they had left the inn, Arthur had diverted to the west instead of the east, a longer path to Briar. Alfred had insisted on receiving an explanation, and the one that Arthur gave him was unsettling.

 

There were Danish soldiers to the east, and Chelles would likely be meeting them in the near future.

 

“We should go back,” Alfred blurted upon hearing the news, but Arthur disagreed.

 

“She knows how to take care of herself. And besides, that town is enchanted: no one enters without permission, and if they do, they have to deal with the soldiers there.”

 

“I didn't see any soldiers.”

 

“That's because they hide in the shadows. Those soldiers are not knights. They attack swiftly and without restraint, and they do not lose.” Arthur had shifted his weight, and Grace skirted around a stump. “Chelles is in the safest place in the country right now. Don't worry about her.”


	16. Chapter 16

It was noon when Arthur finally pulled Grace to a stop in a heavily-wooded forest. Alfred stopped behind him, and mimicked Arthur's movements when he dismounted.

 

“I'll keep watch. You sleep.”

 

Alfred frowned when Arthur spoke, and he crossed his arms. “Why don't you sleep, and I keep watch?”

 

“Don't argue with me.” Arthur slipped the bit from Grace's mouth and tied her rope to a tree. “You sleep first. I'll sleep after and you can watch then.” He walked over where Alfred stood, and let himself settle on the ground where he leaned back against a tree. “We'll have a couple hours before we can leave, plenty of time to rest.”

 

Alfred hesitated when he pulled Comanche's saddle off, and he set it on the ground carefully. “I don't want-”

 

“Just rest.” Arthur's voice was weary, and Alfred couldn't find it in himself to argue. He didn't feel tired, but he laid down anyway and turned away from Arthur.

 

Two hours passed, and Alfred slept for maybe twenty minutes. The rest of the time he let his body relax. He felt every bump and stick on the ground, poking through his clothes and threatening to leave bruises. He wanted to turn over and get away from them, but he didn't want to disturb the peace that seemed to cover the area they occupied. There was no sound apart from the breathing of the horses, and then Arthur stood and walked back over to Grace to get more blankets.

 

When Arthur returned to his spot, he settled down by the tree and pulled his blankets up over him. Alfred chose that time to get back up, and he looked over at Arthur.

 

“I'll watch now,” Alfred muttered.

 

Arthur didn't argue. He let his chin drop to his chest and shut his eyes, shivering before he fell asleep.

 

Alfred did nothing when Arthur dropped off. He stared at the king in silence, or more accurately, stared at the mass of blankets that Arthur had curled up in. The day didn't seem cold enough to warrant that many blankets, and Alfred wondered if there was something wrong. He looked at the blanket that was still draped across his own legs, and then crawled over to Arthur to cover him with it.

 

Arthur really didn't look good. Alfred stared at him while he adjusted the blanket, and he tried to cover as much of him as he could. Arthur shivered when the blanket was set on him, and he curled in on himself. His lips were tinted blue, and when Alfred reached forward to touch his forehead, hands emerged from the blanket to pull at his shirt. Alfred, already out of balance from trying not to get poked by sticks on the ground, was knocked to the side and onto the ground. He looked around, bewildered, and then Arthur was curled up against him.

 

Alfred wasn't sure what to do with the man pressed against his side. Arthur's hands were fisted in his shirt and the blankets had fallen off him. In a panic, he began to pull the blankets back up to cover the man, and at the same time wondered if he could keep watch while lying on his back even with Arthur trying to get closer. He swallowed and decided that it was worth a try, and convinced himself that he was doing it so that England wouldn't lose its ruler.

 

After all, heroes couldn't let an entire culture suffer the loss of a king if they had a way to prevent it.

 

* * *

 

“ _Enemy soldiers.”_

 

Alfred froze in place and waited for Arthur to say something, anything, more. The man had been almost completely silence since he had woken in Alfred's arms. He had panicked and turned bright red, and before Alfred had a chance to say anything, Arthur had scrambled away and fallen over with the blankets wrapped around his legs.

 

Since then, Arthur had been silent. They had mounted up and moved on, skirting around fields and meadows. They had met only animals and trees, until Arthur had dismounted and tied Grace to a tree. He had drawn his blade from its scabbard on Grace's breastplate, and then he had waited for Alfred to follow suit.

 

“They're spreading out,” Arthur whispered when Alfred joined him. “They can't miss us. They know we're here.” Arthur glanced down at the gun that Alfred had taken from his holster, and he swallowed. “If you use that, they'll know exactly where we are.”

 

“That just means we have to kill them before they can react.”

 

Arthur raised his head and looked Alfred in the eye, surprised. The American's jaw was set and his eyes blazed.

 

“I know how to fight.” Alfred tightened his grip on the sword in his hand. “Don't make the mistake of thinking I'm worthless.”

 

“You've got quite a mouth on you,” Arthur grumbled, “considering you're been acting like a child since we left the forest.”

 

Alfred bristled at that, and he tightened his hold on his gun. “Sorry I'm not big on killing innocent people! It's not like I'm some self-obsessed ja-”

 

“That has nothing to do with it!”

 

“You killed a kid! A little kid! I-”

 

“Enough!” Arthur's frame shook, and he swallowed. “That was in the past. Granted, the very _recent_ past, but still in the past!” Neither was sure when they had started yelling, nor did that fact hit them until they heard great booms in the distance. Arthur grabbed Al's wrist and pulled him along, toward the edge of the forest.

 

“It had to be done, and there was no reason to involve you. I'm sorry you don't trust me, but getting to the capital is the one thing we need to do so that we can drive out the Danes!”

 

Alfred stared at him. “It's not that I don't trust you,” he muttered. “I mean, you're a better fighter than before and you...” Alfred looked away and tried to collect his thoughts, but Arthur stopped him.

 

“Forget it, we don't have time. We need to strike first, and we need to strike now.” Arthur tightened his grip on his sword, for a split second he seemed to grow larger.

 

Alfred stared silently, shocked by how Arthur changed in that moment. Arthur's eyes brightened and he was taller, so that he stood above Alfred. His lips moved silently, and Alfred stepped away. A blink, and then Arthur was normal once more. Nothing had changed but the man's expression, and Alfred felt chills throughout his body. He shivered and clenched his fists.

 

“They've built up their defense on the northern side. We need to start from the south and move up. We hit where they're weakest, and we leave no one. We attack the main forces when the others are gone, and we won't have to worry about being surrounded.”

 

“You think we can take an army?”

 

“It's nowhere near the size of the actual army. But if we're lucky, we won't have to fight the main forces.”

 

Arthur refused to tell Alfred why he thought that way. Instead, he led Arthur through the trees and away from the horses. They had to move in absolute silence, and it seemed like forever before they finally began to hear the approaching soldiers. Alfred peered through the trees for a look, but Arthur pulled him forward and away.

 

“We're at a serious disadvantage,” Arthur breathed, and Alfred nodded. “I don't have any magic to use, either.”

 

“Don't make me tell you how stupid that sounds,” Alfred muttered, but Arthur shushed him.

 

They stopped at a grove of trees, and it was then that Alfred realized how stupid the idea was. He had fought before, and concentrating on one attacker was hard. From where they stood, they could see at least fifty fighters approaching, and from what Arthur said, they were acting more as scouts than anything else. That, and they were back-up for the main forces to the north.

 

“This is hopeless,” Alfred muttered, and Arthur nodded.

 

“Don't die,” Arthur whispered, and Alfred raised his gun.

 

Alfred had never thought about how quickly he could reload his pistol. The topic had never come up. It wasn't something one he had to worry about when he was only fighting one person, but Arthur had made it clear that they were taking on a large group of people. He looked before he fired, and he used the woods (that he did not know) to his advantage.

 

Alfred fired, and a young soldier went down immediately. Alfred didn't wait to see the reaction; he was already running to another section of trees where he could attack without worrying about being rushed at. He didn't know where Arthur had gone, and cursed the fact that he would not only be attacking the enemy, but trying to avoid shooting his only ally.

 

It fucking sucked.

 

Alfred watched as a group of soldiers ran into the forest where he had been before, and he aimed at those that remained in the field. He had five shots left in the revolver, and he aimed for those that waited for the others to return.

 

Three deaths, two misses. Alfred inwardly cursed his missed shots, and tried to reload while he ran farther along the edge of the woods. A branch snapped under foot and he cringed. There were soldiers in the woods and the fields, and any could have heard. He listened intently and began to run faster when he heard a shout. He ducked under a low limb and shoved the bullets into each chamber. He tried to concentrate on his gun, the field, and the fact that he was running out of forest. When he reached the end he would have to go in deeper and double back.

 

Arthur was crazy and delusional, Alfred decided, and pulled back the hammer. He paused and fired three times, back into the field. Only one hit, and he realized that he needed to change his tactics. He couldn't depend on lucky shots; he would get himself killed.

 

Alfred carefully set the hammer down, and he shoved the pistol into its holster before removing the sword from the scabbard at his waist. He dove farther into the forest and moved back, keeping his steps light and forcing his breathing to slow. He was determined to circle back and strike whoever dared to enter the woods in pursuit.

 

That plan was easier said than done. Alfred didn't know how he could get close enough to any of the soldiers to attack. They moved in groups, and he knew that at least twenty had entered the forest for revenge. Alfred let himself back against a tree and slide to the forest floor, where he could watch from below for his prey.

 

When his pursuers finally appeared, they were running. He wondered at how disorganized their ranks were, and when one came close, he let himself rise up and strike. Alfred let his sword fly, and the soldier screamed in terror when the sword struck the armor on his chest. Alfred pushed and tilted the sword, and it slid along the armor and cut into the man's throat. He dropped immediately, and Alfred ripped his gun from its holster.

 

_Why are there only seven?_

 

Alfred didn't wait to think over it. Two more died by bullet, and then he was staring at the five remaining soldiers. No one dared move. Alfred was outnumbered, yet he held a gun. He considered firing his four remaining bullets in the hopes that four would fall and leave him against one, but didn't dare move. There were more in the forest. He  _knew_ there were.

 

“Don't go near him,” one of the soldiers hissed, and the others stilled. “He knows the land. He has traps.”

 

Alfred didn't have time to be confused. One moment he was watching a soldier and considering firing his gun, and the next he was staring at a sword that had been plunged through the soldier's neck. The soldier didn't know what had happened, and Alfred used the distraction to fire.

 

Through the head, another soldier fell. Three left. Alfred fired once, but two more bodies lay on the ground. Another shot, and silence filled the forest, only broken by the last body that fell.

 

Alfred stared at the bodies around him in confusion, then he noticed something that hadn't caught his attention before.

 

“Arthur?”

 

“I don't know how much time we've wasted in here,” Arthur muttered. He wiped the blade of his sword on a leaf, trying to remove the blood. “They know we're in here, they're probably waiting for one of us to poke out a head.”

 

“There were twenty that came in. Where are-”

 

“Dead.”

 

“How did you do that?” Alfred demanded, but Arthur wasn't in the mood to answer. Arthur was already leading him back through the trees, keeping his eyes trained towards where the soldiers had been.

 

They knew they were close when there was more shouting, and Arthur motioned for Alfred to stop.

 

“Attackers from the north!” someone cried, and Arthur grinned. 

 

“I knew it,” Arthur whispered, and Alfred _looked_ at him. “We're in luck,” Arthur told him. “My soldiers are coming down from the north. However, we now have _them_ ,” Arthur pointed at the soldiers in the clearing, “coming directly for us.”

 

“So we..?”

 

“Kill them all,” Arthur supplied.

 

Alfred nodded and took a deep breath. He replaced the spent bullets in his gun, and then he aimed. “An attack on both sides?”

 

“They think they're surrounded.”

 

Alfred fired.


	17. Chapter 17

The attack had been swift and brutal. The enemy had deemed the forest a safe haven where they could flee, and had probably thought that their allies had won against the attackers in the trees.

 

Whatever they thought, it made them easier to kill. Alfred had searched his pockets for more bullets, that he quickly used up against the people running towards them. Arthur had taken a more proactive approach; he met the enemy at the trees with his sword, and the grass was painted with crimson blood. The air was filled with screams of anger and terror alike, and the land the enemy had fled became filled with more soldiers. _Allies_.

 

Alfred reloaded and placed his pistol back in its holster. “You know them?” he asked when he saw the expression on Arthur's face. He didn't know what made Arthur frown and narrow his eyes, but he was certainly interested.

 

“Let's go get the horses,” Arthur whispered. “I'd rather they not see me.”

 

Alfred nodded and followed Arthur back through the trees. The return seemed to take forever, and Alfred was sure it was because he didn't know where they were, and he was eager to return to Comanche.

 

The horses were silent when they returned, and Arthur dug through his saddlebags for the cloak he had left behind during the fight. He pulled it on and covered his head, and before Alfred had time to appreciate Arthur's knowledge of the terrain, his attention was caught by a snapping branch. It was too late to react, and by the time he realized what was going on, they were surrounded.

 

Alfred didn't dare breath. He was all too aware of the soldiers (both in sight and out) that had spears and swords raised in warning. He longed to reach and grab his gun, but knew that he wouldn't be able to fire before they attacked. He risked a glance at Arthur, but the king was oddly silent.

 

“Am I to believe that the two of you are to be credited for the _massacre_ at the entrance of the forest?” one of the men demanded. He stepped ahead of the soldiers, and his armor was hit by sunlight that broke through the trees above. It didn't glint, as Alfred had expected. Instead, the light darkened the surface, and he could see the dark blood (both dried and fresh) that covered it. Alfred understood immediately. He was their leader, and he was their greatest fighter. Alfred knew that he should fear that man, and he did. That man could end their journey and doom the country if he so wished.

 

“Where'd you get that horse?” the man continued.

 

“I raised him,” Alfred told him, but the man shook his head.

 

“I don't give a shit about the stud. _The mare_. Where'd you get her?”

 

“I found he-”

 

“She's mine,” Arthur interrupted, and the soldier stared. “Do you want to make something of it, Scott?”

 

The soldier ( _Scott_ ) sheathed his sword and stalked forward, ignoring the worried looks of his men. He grabbed Arthur's shoulder and turned him, facing Grace. Alfred could barely hear what they said, and he _knew_ that the soldiers heard nothing.

 

“Where the _fuck_ have you been?” Scott hissed. “The entire country thinks you're dead! The capital's done for, the soldiers are scattered, some _guy_ is going around saying that he _shot_ you-” He stopped to catch his breath, and swallowed. “England is dying. Everyone knows it. We fight, but nothing changes. The Danes keep coming, and people keep dying. What're we supposed to do?”

 

Arthur slowly removed the hand from his shoulder. He took a breath. “Keep fighting. Let _us_ worry about England.”

 

“Who the hell is he, anyway?” Scott pointed at Alfred without looking.

 

“A useful ally. We're on our way to retake the capital.”

 

“You can't go there without an army!” Scott snapped.

 

“Which is why I already have one on the way.” Arthur stepped away from Scott and untied Grace from her tree. “Scott, trust me. The country needs its soldiers to protect its people. If I had armies join me at the capital, the people would be powerless against the Danes.”

 

“You really think you can do anything?” Scott snorted.

 

Arthur chuckled. “You said it yourself, Scott; they think I'm dead.” Arthur replaced grace's halter with her bridle, and he checked to see that Alfred was doing the same. “I think this is the only civil conversation we've ever had.”

 

“Probably.” Scott crossed his arms and took a step back. “Don't fuck this up. I want something to kick the shit out of when this is over.”

 

Arthur glared at Scott before he mounted, and he motioned to Alfred. Alfred shifted his weight and followed Arthur in silence, and they left the soldiers behind.

 

“Ride fast,” Arthur murmured over their horses' hooves. “We have things to talk about.”

 

* * *

 

It was early morning before they stopped to rest. Alfred almost dropped out of the saddle, and Arthur was only slightly better. The horses fell asleep almost as soon as they were tied and their saddles were removed. Alfred and Arthur had at least enough time to start a fire, and then they were silent. The fire cracked before them, and Arthur removed his cloak, then his shirt. Alfred stared at the messy bandages, and he reached over.

 

“When..?”

 

“When the first group came in,” Arthur said. “Threw a knife at me before I killed him. No big deal.”

 

“I'll wrap it right,” Alfred offered, and he sat in front of Arthur before the other could protest. “You have to talk anyway, right?”

 

“Well, there are things you need to know before we reach the capital,” Arthur said, and Alfred nodded. He reached for the bag that Arthur had dragged with him to the fire, and Arthur began to peel away bandages.

 

The injury wasn't deep, but looked painful. The skin had been torn instead of sliced, and dried blood stuck to both the bandages and Arthur's chest. Arthur winced when the bandages were peeled away, and Alfred tossed them in the fire.

 

“So? What do I need to know?” Alfred tore a piece from the new bandages and wet it with his water. He carefully wiped Arthur's chest, and ignored Arthur's flinches.

 

“The Danes are using a mage to fight,” Arthur said, and Alfred paused.

 

“What?”

 

“He's powerful, as you could see from my little,” he flinched, “ _copies_. He'll undoubtedly be hiding in my room, the _bastard_.”

 

“I didn't know mages existed,” Alfred said sarcastically, and Arthur slapped his arm. He immediately regretted the action, as it resulted in Alfred pressing too hard against his chest.

 

“What the hell does that make me then? Or Chelles's mother?”

 

Alfred didn't have an answer, and Arthur continued. “He's not even from Denmark. He's from some other country, but apparently the spoiled prince needed a friend.” Alfred didn't miss the way Arthur spat out the words. He wanted to look up and check his face, but he wasn't sure he wanted to see what Arthur looked like. “So of course he had a mage imported, the bastard.”

 

“And he had to import a mage?” Alfred arched an eyebrow, and Arthur scoffed.

 

“He didn't like England having a power he didn't. He actually tried to get me to travel to Denmark! Bastard. As if I didn't know what he was planning.” Arthur groaned. “I honestly thought he'd be content, since he finally had what he wanted. I didn't think he'd actually invade.”

 

“So he invaded because he got a mage?”

 

“As if I know why he invaded!” Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Mathias has always been a brat. He got a taste of power and took it.” He stopped talking when Alfred finally started wrapping his wounds, and he yawned. “He'll be there.”

 

Alfred pinned the bandages in place and looked up. He waited for Arthur to say something more, but then had to finally accept that Arthur was waiting for something. “What is it?”

 

“I can't fight Mathias while his mage is hanging around.”

 

Alfred swallowed. “So... I have to...”

 

“You have to fight him. Power against power, magic against magic.”

 

“Awesome.” Alfred pulled his hands back, and Arthur pulled his shirt on. “That's just... great.”

 

“Of course,” Arthur muttered, and they fell silent. Arthur began to pull blankets from the bag, and Alfred sighed.

 

“Why're you so cold at night, when you sleep?”

 

Arthur shrugged. “Just getting used to my complete body, I suppose. Anyway, we shouldn't need a watch tonight. No one's coming, we'll be safe.” Arthur pulled himself away from Alfred and pulled the blankets up around him.

 

“Did you know your soldiers were coming yesterday?”

 

Arthur peeked out of the blankets. “I knew _something_ was coming. I didn't know whether it was good or bad, though.”

 

“So... That guy was good?”

 

“Would we be alive if he wasn't?” Arthur chuckled. “That bastard's my brother. Fucking asshole.”

 

“ _I'm not a-_ ”

 

“Not _you,_ ” Arthur growled, “ _he's_ the asshole. That _imbecile_ just wants to see me dethroned. He'd _much_ rather sit his fat ass in that chair and rule the kingdom, without _any_ idea of how to go about doing it!”

 

Alfred blinked, unsure of what he was supposed to say in response to that. Arthur took deep breaths to try and calm himself, and covered himself with the blankets once more.

 

“He's just a fool,” Arthur muttered, and his head disappeared under the blankets.

 

Alfred stared at Arthur for a moment before he left in search of his own blankets, and he tried to remember what he had heard about Arthur before discovering him. He knew that Arthur was the youngest of his brothers, and first in line for the throne despite having three older brothers (actually, since the king and queen had been killed by the enemy, Arthur _was_ the new king). He was supposedly a mage, and was targeted because of that. He _knew_ things that hadn't happened, and seemed to think that-

 

“Why are you shivering?” Alfred asked. He looked down at the bundle of blankets that had suddenly stilled, and waited for an answer.

 

“I'm not,” Arthur's muffled voice protested.

 

“Yes you are.” Alfred collected his blankets and walked back over. “Hell, last time your lips turned blue!”

 

“I'm just getting used to my old body!” The blankets moved as one, and Alfred assumed Arthur had turned away. “Just leave it alone.”

 

“We can curl up if you want,” Alfred offered. He plopped down before Arthur could protest, and pulled the bundle of blankets over. Arthur sputtered and refused to come out of the depths, and Alfred laughed. “No big deal! See?” Alfred pulled the blankets over them, and grinned to himself when Arthur didn't protest.

 

Alfred settled in and pulled the bundle of blankets closer. They didn't shiver from the cold, nor did they try to pull away. Arthur was completely silent, and Alfred was preparing to close his eyes when he spoke.

 

“I don't enjoy killing,” Arthur's muffled voice said from beneath the layers of fabric. “I'm just not afraid to do what has to be done.”

 

Alfred didn't answer. How could he?


	18. Chapter 18

They didn't go to the capital like Alfred had thought they would. In fact, they traveled night and day, and eventually stopped miles outside the city's walls. Arthur didn't say anything except that they would be meeting allies, and Alfred was forced to remain silent and wait until the time came.

 

It was another day of waiting in that tiny forest before anything happened, and they spent their time mostly in silence, save for the few times that Alfred managed to start a conversation that Arthur would respond to and keep alive. Alfred had attempted to talk about the weather, or the land, but to no avail. A few words from Arthur and an uncomfortable silence would fall over them. The only time Arthur actively spoke was when the topic turned to the horses.

 

And from the horses, it turned to the night Arthur had been torn apart by a spell on par with his own magic. Arthur had shifted uneasily when the topic turned to darker things, and Alfred had listened attentively. Grace had been Arthur's horse from the beginning. He had raised her and trained her as a filly, and it was only by chance that Alfred had unknowingly found her for him. Alfred had asked how she had been lost, and Arthur had seemed to collapse against the tree that he rested his back against. He had looked away, and he had placed his hands together, rubbing the back of his left hand. Alfred had noticed the scar.

 

“I was riding by the rivers,” Arthur had muttered, “and there was a light. I knew it was a spell, but I wasn't in any position to stop it. All I knew was that I was in pain.” Arthur had shut his eyes. “Everything with you was through a filter. I don't remember parts of being a child; I vaguely remember waking in the forest, when that part of me died. I remember riding with you. But everything was dark, and I can't recall it all.” Arthur had shrugged. “It's only been truly clear since the angel died.”

 

Alfred had picked at the sole of his boots, and listened to Comanche tearing leaves from the branches of the trees around them. He didn't know how he was supposed to react to Arthur's story; pity seemed superficial and understanding was impossible. Instead he averted his gaze, and tried to memorize how the bark on one of the trees looked, as if he wanted to paint it later.

 

The silence had taken over once again, and the sky darkened when the sun slowly disappeared. Alfred wanted to leave the small grove of trees the had occupied to watch it, to see the sky turn a violent red with the end of the day, and-

 

“There was a guy that shot the angel,” Alfred muttered. He looked at Arthur, and waited until Arthur returned his gaze. “Red eyes. White hair. He-”

 

“Gilbert.” Arthur spat the name, and Alfred furrowed his brow in confusion. “He's one of Mathias's closest friends and allies. He's _not_ someone you want to be involved with.” Arthur crossed his arms. “He's unpredictable. Mathias is the only one that he's remained acquainted with. Everyone else either ends up dead, or loses something valuable.”

 

Before Alfred could ask for an explanation, Arthur was standing. The sun had disappeared and the sky had grown dark without the moon to brighten it.

 

“Time to go,” Arthur said, and Alfred hurried to saddle Comanche.

 

Once again, they didn't reach the city. They traveled instead to the old tavern that Alfred had gone to for bounties, and Alfred shivered when he entered. The bartender's body had been removed by _something_ , and Alfred avoided looking at the counter where he had done business before. Arthur paid no mind to the missing tender's body (he probably didn't remember the man's existence). Instead, Arthur paced back and forth before the bar, staring at the floor with his arms crossed before him.

 

Alfred watched Arthur pace in silence. He didn't know what had Arthur so anxious and active, but he had no interest in finding out. After a while he looked away from Arthur, and instead looked at the opposite wall. Choosing to stare at the wall turned out to be a bad idea; there was a large stain on it that was most likely left over from the bartender's death. He looked back at Arthur, but before he could ask when the hell he was doing, Arthur silenced him with a look. Alfred watched while Arthur kicked at the floor, and then knocked over a table.

 

“Hey!” Alfred started, but Arthur ignored him. Instead, he continued to toss tables and chairs out of the way until the center of the floor was bare.

 

“Come here,” Arthur said, and Alfred moved towards him. His steps echoed in the tavern, something he hadn't noticed before, and he knelt down beside Arthur. Arthur tabbed his leg with his hand and pushed him to the side. “Pull up on these boards.”

 

Alfred nodded and stared at the wooden floorboards. He pressed his fingers down and in the space between the boards, and together with Arthur, they lifted the boards up and pushed them away.

 

Alfred had thought they would find only dirt; however, under the floorboards was a large hole. He held one of the boards awkwardly in his hands, but Arthur didn't hesitate. He lowered himself into the hole, and motioned for Alfred to follow.

 

“Try to cover the hole back up. I don't want anyone following us.”

 

Alfred dropped into the hole and pulled the boards down carefully. He slid his fingers down slowly, and the two of them were plunged into darkness. Alfred thumped his head against the boards above, and Arthur yanked him down.

 

“Don't knock them around. Someone might notice.” Arthur reached back in the darkness for Alfred's hand, and he pulled it forward.

 

Alfred used his other hand to steady himself, pressing his hand against the walls to keep himself upright. The dirt that made up the walls crumbled under his fingers, and he squinted his eyes in the darkness. He couldn't see anything, and he was sure that Arthur was also blind in the darkness. He slid his fingers along the wall, and then reached an end. He stumbled, and Arthur stopped moving him along. They both stood still, and Alfred moved only his arm. He bumped into Arthur when he reach forward, and he swallowed. There were different paths leading into different directions.

 

“This is bad,” Alfred muttered. “We don-”

 

“This way.” Arthur tugged on Alfred's hand and turned him. Alfred bumped into the wall and fell forward, but caught himself before he hit the ground. Arthur made a sound of annoyance and pulled Alfred ahead. “Stop fooling around.”

 

“Where're we going?” Alfred asked, and Arthur stopped suddenly.

 

“Cover your eyes,” Arthur said, and then the ceiling fell down around them.

 

Alfred didn't have time to run or hit the ground before he was surrounded by falling dirt and debris, and then light filled the tunnel. He was momentarily blinded, and jerked forward a step.

 

“I didn't know you were bringing a friend.”

 

Alfred blinked his eyes repeatedly, trying to clear the bright spots that filled his vision. Arthur had released him and walked away, towards where the voice came from.

 

“He's from America. He's been helping.”

 

Alfred rubbed his eyes, and slowly his vision cleared. He blinked, but when nothing changed, he had to admit that the people before him were real.

 

And really weird looking.

 

There were six people in the tunnel before him, and Arthur had eagerly joined them around the small lantern they possessed. Alfred didn't move from his spot. He could only stare at the group. They wore great cloaks that hid all but their faces, and he could tell no more than their gender. Two appeared to be female, and one of the women quickly pulled something (it looked like a staff) under her cloak when she caught him looking.

 

“I don't trust him,” the woman that had moved said, and she glared at Arthur.

 

“You don't have a choice.” Arthur sat crossed his arms and looked back at Alfred pointedly. Alfred walked forward slowly to join them, and Arthur reached back to yank him to the circle. “We don't have time for disagreements. We have to decide when to attack, and we have to decide now.”

 

The people in the circle shifted uncomfortably, and Alfred frowned.

 

“This is your army?” Alfred asked, and he sighed. “Seriously?”

 

“These are the leaders.” Arthur nodded his head in their direction. “Their soldiers are waiting.”

 

“We have about three hundred people in the tunnels, and another hundred above ground,” one of the men interrupted. “We've checked the exits in the city. The one at the back of the palace would be best to enter through.”

 

Arthur coughed. “I don't think we can send an army through that tunnel unnoticed.”

 

“That's why you're taking Sean and twenty men,” the man continued. “The rest of us are invading the city.”

 

Arthur's eyes flicked to the side and fell on a man in a dark green cloak. The man looked at him and nodded curtly.

 

“Not like there are any better plans.” Arthur looked away, and he took a deep breath. “We need to coordinate.”

 

“We probably won't be able to attack until tomorrow,” Sean muttered. “But I would wait longer. We need to attack before dawn. The soldiers have enough food and water to last a week. We have time to plan our attack.”

 

“Then let's get started,” Arthur said, and he sat down on the ground. “We may have time, but we don't want to use all of it.”

 

* * *

 

After the discussions had started, Alfred had tugged on Arthur's coat and motioned back towards the tunnel they had entered through. It was then that Arthur remembered the horses, but Sean spoke before he could tell them he needed to leave.

 

“Someone took them to a stable in one of the towns while you were on your way down,” Sean said. “They'll be fine.”

 

Alfred didn't feel much better when he heard the words, but Arthur relaxed immediately.

 

Alfred didn't know how long the discussion lasted. At one time, someone armed with a sword and a pistol entered the small room and spoke briefly with one of the women. She had nodded and said that they should rest, and then the light had been extinguished.

 

Alfred and Arthur had retreated into the tunnel, adding to the sounds of feet shuffling and the low murmurs while some talked to one another. Alfred wasn't sure if they were talking about the battle or more personal things, and failed to notice that Arthur had taken him deeper into the tunnels and away from the group. When they finally stopped and dropped down onto the ground, Arthur sighed.

 

“Those idiots are running to their deaths,” Arthur grumbled.

 

“They're fighting for something they want,” Alfred offered. His voice sounded like a roar in the darkness, and Arthur shushed him.

 

“We don't need them to hear everything,” Arthur grumbled.

 

Alfred settled himself in place and then reached forward to find where Arthur was sitting. When he found Arthur's knee, he pulled his hand back and turned his eyes in the Arthur's direction.

 

“How many people d'you think're in the city?” Alfred's voice was low, and he shifted when he spoke.

 

Arthur had no idea. “About twelve thousand people actually _live_ there,” he muttered. He shut his eyes (not that it changed anything in the darkness) and leaned back against the dirt wall. “I don't know how many are still there. He's probably killed a lot, and sent away the rest. As for his _own_ people... I have no idea. He'd need enough to control the people in the city, but I don't know his soldiers' abilities. Then he probably has more than he needs. It's really impossible to know.”

 

Arthur exhaled, and Alfred crossed his arms.

 

“Can't you tell?” Alfred wondered. He stretched his legs out and nudged what he thought was Arthur's knee with his toe. “I mean, back when we were fighting, you said you knew that-”

 

“You can't trust those visions,” Arthur cut him off. “They're hazy and most of the time unreliable. I can't give you a number with that.”

 

“But can't you get a feeling?”

 

“I might be able to. But the chance of it working is-”

 

“Shouldn't you try? Just in case?”

 

Arthur sighed. He used a hand to push Alfred's foot away from him, though his hand remained on Alfred's ankle. “I suppose I can,” he mumbled. There was a sliding noise, and then Alfred was sitting beside him. Arthur let out a breath. “It's going to take more than when I did it in that forest.” Arthur's hands moved slowly, and Alfred could hear something in them. A package, or something.

 

The next thing Alfred knew was that the darkness was suddenly warm. Arthur had pulled a blanket from that package, and he curled up under it, Alfred by his side.

 

“It will be a few hours before I can wake,” Arthur mumbled. “Just don't... Don't tell anyone, if they come looking.”

 

“Okay.” Alfred waited for something miraculous to happen, but instead, Arthur slumped against him. Alfred adjusted him carefully and let himself slide down so that he was lying on his stomach with Arthur beside him. He tried to get more comfortable, and found himself trying to keep Arthur warm at the same time. He sighed, and hoped that they would have enough time before one of the people from the meeting came in search of them.

 

* * *

 

Hours had passed since the meeting had ended and Arthur had fallen into a deep sleep. Alfred tried to sleep, but he couldn't force himself to. He wasn't tired; he was ready for battle, and to reclaim the capital of this foreign land. From the discussions they had had earlier, none of the people that they met with believed him; they didn't see what he had to offer, and they couldn't understand why he was offering to risk his life for a country he didn't belong to.

 

Was saying “because I feel like it” really that unbelievable?

 

Alfred nudged Arthur's shoulder. Arthur just felt heavier on his lap, and his head moved slightly from the motion. He was completely still, completely silent, and getting colder. Alfred would be lying if he said he wasn't slightly concerned. In fact, as he eyes began to adjust to the darkness, he could faintly see Arthur's skin even though he couldn't see his own. He knew that Arthur had to be extremely pale if he could see him in the darkness, and the fact that he only became colder as time went on worried him If he didn't know any better, he'd think that Arthur was dead.

 

The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if Arthur really _had_ died _._ It was at that point that panic began to set in. Arthur didn't make a sound, and Alfred couldn't even tell if he was breathing in the darkness. He was cold, and Arthur had said before that it would take more out of him than the last time. Alfred groped around for Arthur's arms and pulled him even closer, trying to cover the man with his body. He wanted to keep him warm and didn't know any other way. He was sure that if he could just keep his body temperature up, that he wouldn't be dead. Then Alfred wouldn't be lost in a dark tunnel alone.

 

Alfred sighed and tried to shift into a more comfortable position. It was difficult, as the ground was cold and hard. He wished that he had thought to bring blankets from the horses before entering the tavern, but at the time he had not known that they would end up wandering around in underground tunnels. Alfred's breath caught when he heard a noise, and he tried to flatten himself against the ground. He put his arm on Arthur's side and pushed down carefully, as though he could hide him (or behind him).

 

Alfred couldn't tell if the sounds that continued in the tunnels were from the wind or something far more sinister, but he didn't like them. He pressed his face into Arthur's back, between his shoulder blades, and clenched his eyes shut. There _had_ to be better things to think about. He let out a breath and it caught in his throat when there was a howl. He told himself that it was the wind. It _had_ to be the wind.

 

Better things. Better things.

 

Picking up Iggy. That was a good story. Well, kinda. He was a cute kid, a bit of a brat sometimes, but cool. Cute, too.

 

Alfred swallowed. _Was_. Iggy _was_ a cute kid. He hated the thought. He hated that every time he thought of the boy, he had to remember his death, and the fact that he had met his end when Alfred could've protected him.

 

Alfred wondered what had brought him to England. He had dreamed of adventure and discovery, but really—what had he found? He was preparing for a war, trying to sleep next to someone that was essentially a corpse, in a dark tunnel underground _somewhere_ he couldn't identify. This wasn't the adventure he had planned or wanted. He had wanted peace. Excitement. Life. He hadn't wanted death.

 

Then again, had he really encountered death?

 

“Are you cold?”

 

Alfred's arms clenched tighter around the body in front of him, and his eyes snapped open. He stopped breathing and tried to still the tremors that ran through his body. He waited in silence for the voice to come again. He didn't want to think about what it was that lurked in the shadows, and so he pressed his face against Arthur's back. He muffled his breaths, and something cold touched his hand. He yanked his hand away, and Arthur groaned.

 

“Arthur?” Alfred hissed, and he looked around quickly. “Arthur, you up?”

 

Alfred could feel Arthur moving, and the man turned slowly to face him. Arthur coughed, and Alfred sat up. Arthur rolled over onto his stomach and slowly used his arms to push himself up. Alfred attempted to reach for him and help, but Arthur shook his head. The act seemed to disorient him, and Alfred had to catch him before he stumbled sideways into the darkness.

 

“We're fucked,” Arthur said before Alfred had a chance to speak. “It was hard to tell, and I likely got it wrong. But he has at least three thousand soldiers. Four hundred of us... Well, we can't do shite against that.”

 

Alfred carefully helped Arthur sit straight, and he swallowed. “We can't win then,” Alfred muttered.

 

The tunnel fell silent, and Alfred shivered when there was another noise, a howl. Neither dared to speak, until Arthur sighed.

 

“I suppose I shouldn't have said that,” Arthur said, and Alfred wondered at how he could sound so unconcerned. “The two of us shouldn't be concerned about it, I suppose. Our main interest is in Mathias and his mage. We should be able to ignore anything else.” Arthur slumped sideways against Alfred, and he let out a breath. “I'm tired,” he said, and Alfred nodded. It didn't take long before Arthur fell asleep, and he took a deep breath before following.

 

* * *

 

It had been a long time since Alfred and Arthur had had a reasonable amount of sleep. They had been plagued by battle and unknown pursuers, and the knowledge that the country was collapsing around them. It was weird to wake in the darkness and _not_ feel the exhaustion from an incomplete sleep; waking up in a dark cavern well rested was actually surprising and brought about a bit of panic, until they remembered where they were. Then there was an awkward silence, while Arthur and Alfred thought about the situation they found themselves in. Alfred was pressed firmly to Arthur's back, his arms wrapped around the man and his face pressed between Arthur's shoulder blades.

 

Neither moved. Neither spoke. They both waited. Arthur took a breath, and Alfred could feel it travel through his own chest. Then Arthur's hands moved, and he picked at Alfred's sleeves.

 

“They're going to want us back,” Arthur muttered. “We have to go over the final plans. Formations. Routes.”

 

Alfred pulled his arms away and Arthur slowly sat up. They both stretched, tried to get the stiffness out of their bodies, and then Alfred reached around in the darkness to find Arthur again. He latched onto a shirt when he finally found him, and Arthur stood slowly. Alfred could hear tiny pops when he moved, and then he was cuffed behind the ear by a hand that struggled to find him. Alfred carefully pushed himself to his feet, and followed when Arthur led him back through the darkness and to the place they had met with the people from the night ( _night_? He wasn't sure _what_ it had been) before.

 

Arthur led the way back to the room, and Alfred blinked his eyes to get used to the bright light. Conversation started immediately, and Arthur took his place beside the man named Sean. Alfred was silent while they talked, and moved only when someone ran from one of the many tunnels that connected to the room they were in.

 

The newcomer didn't wait to be invited into the conversation. He interrupted one of the women when she spoke, and his voice was high with excitement.

 

“It's raining!” the man said, and his eyes were wide with excitement. There was a definite change in the people around the circle. They shifted and murmured amongst themselves. They had been unnerved when Arthur had revealed what he had found in his dreams (something that surprised Alfred; he hadn't expected Arthur to be taken seriously, but then again, he _was_ the kind), and had talked about the vast difference in their numbers. Hundreds winning against thousands was unthinkable, and they had all become solemn when told about the soldiers.

 

Alfred wondered at why they were moved by rain, and then one of the cloaked men spoke.

 

“We have to strike soon,” he said, and he looked at the people around him. “We'll send Arthur in first, with Sean and the men. We'll wait a few minutes, and then storm the gates with the main forces. Get everyone ready. I want to strike today. We need to attack before the sun sets tonight, so we have ten hours to get ready.”

 

“Isn't that a bit of a rush?” Alfred cut in.

 

Sean shook his head. “They've been ready for war for a week. They'd charge right now if they could. They'll just be mad that they have to wait longer.”

 

 

 

 

“He's my brother.”

 

Alfred looked over at Arthur, and slowly set his pistol down. A small lantern had been set on the ground between them, and the light around them flickered with the flames. He reached for his bag that had been retrieved from Comanche by messengers above ground, and pulled out the bullets within. There were more than he had owned, and he knew that the men had found more for him.

 

“Both of them are, actually,” Arthur continued. “Sean. Darren. Darren didn't speak though. He doesn't like any of this. He would've joined us in entering the castle, but Sean would be better if someone found us inside. He's far more violent than Darren.”

 

Alfred nodded. He carefully packed his things into a small bag, and then hung his pistol from his belt. His sword joined his gun, and he looked down the tunnel they sat in.

 

“Do they have these tunnels everywhere?” he asked.

 

“No one knows who built them.” Arthur shrugged. “My brothers and I have been through most of them, but I don't know how far they go.”

 

Alfred pulled his bag onto his back, and Arthur shifted. A wind swept through the tunnel and Alfred flinched when it howled.

 

“Sounds like they're coming,” Arthur said, and Alfred looked down the tunnel where they came from. There were foot steps in the distance, murmurs, and Arthur collected the few things that he had with him.

 

Alfred said nothing when they were joined by Sean and twenty soldiers, and aside from the rustling of clothing and the clinking of blades, there were no sounds. Sean and Arthur communicated by nodding at each other and motioning, and then the entire group moved together through the tunnel. Arthur held the lantern above his head to light the way, and Alfred found himself walking behind him. Arthur and Sean walked together, brothers, royalty, and Alfred was left with the soldiers.

 

Alfred didn't know why he thought of it that way. It had always been Arthur and him, equals, both trying to survive; however, in that moment, he felt an impossible distance between them, and he didn't understand why.

 

The soldiers looked curiously at Alfred while they walked, and he looked back at them. They nodded to him and he nodded in return. They remained that way for a long time while they walked beneath the earth, and after a time, one of the soldiers mentioned that they were most likely under the city. The other soldiers had nodded their agreement, but Alfred had been unable to. He didn't know the city. He only knew that they had traveled miles in the darkness, and he was more than ready to escape from the tunnels and return to the surface. He was ready to fight, and leave the apprehension (and something he refused to call _fear_ ) behind him. The walk was doing nothing except making him more excited and tense, and when he thought of the name _Mathias_ , he tightened his hands into fists.

 

His anger and desires went unnoticed. The soldiers had dropped back, until he was walking alone despite the fact that there were so many people in the cramped space. He was between the brothers and the soldiers, and when he thought about it, he felt alone.

 

It was an odd feeling, and fueled his anger. Had it not been for the invaders, he wouldn't have been involved in all of the plots and bids for power. He could've traveled as much as he wanted, claiming bounties and cleaning up England while camping out with Comanche.

 

He needed to stop thinking of the _if_ s. He needed to remember that he was in the _now_ , and that it was his duty to protect. Though the conflict seemed to revolve around Arthur and Mathias, the English and the Danes, it could spread if it wasn't stopped. It could leave England's shores and go to his home, where the people were sleeping safely in their beds with the thought that no one could breach their land.

 

Arthur abruptly stopped, and Alfred could finally hear their words.

 

“This is the one outside the main gates,” Arthur snapped. He had his arms crossed, and Alfred could see him scowling in the light. “There's another one up fifty meters that comes out in the yard.”

 

“This one is outside the town,” Sean insisted. “The next one is the gates, and then after that is the yard.”

 

“We passed the town a mile back!” Arthur looked like he wanted to punch his brother, and Alfred could see a small tunnel that turned to the right. “I've been down here a hell of a lot more than _you_ have, I _think_ I know what the hell I'm doing!”

 

“Do I need to remind you about the fact that you died?”

 

“I never _died_ , I was just out of sorts.” Arthur ignored his brother's snort. “I am telling you, the tunnel to the yard is the next turn. Not the one after that. And _this_ is the tunnel to the main gates.”

 

The soldiers had finally rejoined them, and Arthur looked past Sean. He looked to Alfred, and jerked his head to the side.

 

“We're entering the yard. Sean's going through the gates with the soldiers. We have the take the _next_ tunnel, while Sean takes this one.”

 

Sean looked ready to pummel his younger brother out of existence, but Arthur ignored him. He simply adjusted his bag and nodded to the other soldiers. Then he motioned for Alfred to follow.

 

Arthur never gave his brother a chance to follow. He ran through the darkness and dropped the lantern, and it shattered on the ground. The light was extinguished in a moment, and Sean would have no choice but to take the tunnel he was already at. Arthur had grabbed Alfred's wrist, and he pulled him along as though possessed.

 

Alfred wasn't sure what to do. He knew that they had to reach the tunnel and leave through the yard to infiltrate the castle. He also knew that they still had time before they had to enter. The soldiers had said that there was another hour before they planned to infiltrate the castle. Alfred wasn't sure if that included him and Arthur.

 

“Do we wait before we go in?” Alfred asked.

 

Arthur's fingers tightened around his wrist. “No,” he said. “We have work to do. They'll expect someone to enter during an invasion; hopefully they won't expect it before.” Once Arthur started talking, he didn't stop. He explained (in detail) the way to the main chambers of the castle, and where he thought Mathias would be hiding. He told Alfred about the turns, and the few shortcuts that were hidden behind staircases and false wall panels. They were shortcuts that had been used often by the children of the castle, pathways that made small children think that they were soldiers on a journey to discover a princess being kept captive by a dragon; they were shortcuts that were now going to help in a real invasion.

 

Arthur pulled Alfred to the side, and they moved through a separate tunnel, one that became smaller and smaller the farther in they moved. Alfred had to duck to avoid the ceiling of the tunnel, and the dirt scraped his back while he moved. Eventually they both had to crawl on their hands and knees, and Alfred was forced to stop when Arthur stopped suddenly before him. There was a low grating sound, and then Alfred could hear the sound of rain hitting the ground.

 

“Told him I was right,” Arthur whispered, and then he crept from the tunnel and onto grass.

 

Alfred followed Arthur, and tried to take in their new surroundings. Arthur had crept behind a large bush and looked around to see what could be hiding in the yard. There were trees and gardens all around them, and though the gardens were trampled and the area was darkened by the falling rain. Alfred looked around to see if he could find any distinguishing marks or monuments. The stone walls were a dull gray, and there was a long black mark that ran down the length, and out of sight around a corner. Arthur looked up, and Alfred followed his gaze to the windows above.

 

“Don't move,” Arthur breathed, and Alfred froze. “There's someone in the southern window.”

 

Alfred swallowed, and he slowly scanned the upper windows. He had to squint, and then he saw the shadow in the window. He was surprised that Arthur had been able to see it, and slowly backed himself to the stone wall behind. Arthur crept towards him and motioned towards another window, one that was almost level with the ground.

 

“Stay on the wall,” Arthur whispered. “I can open that window.”

 

Alfred nodded and moved forward. He glanced back and forth between the window and what was in front of his feet, and Arthur carefully pressed a hand between his shoulder blades to make him move faster. Alfred complied, and when they reached the window, Arthur urged him to move past it.

 

Arthur peered through the window and waited. He let his fingers glide along the stone around the window, and he pressed his nose against the frame. He looked inside, and then he pressed his fingers into the side of the window and pulled the entire frame out. Alfred was quick to grab his shoulders and steady him when the panel weighed him down, and Arthur set it carefully to the side. He motioned Alfred through, and they pulled it back into place after they had both crawled through.

 

“There are passages that only my brothers and I know about,” Arthur whispered, and then he led Alfred down the hall they were in. They had to move slowly to keep their steps silent and their presence undetected, and they could both feel the tension that fell over the castle. It was completely silent, and Alfred could feel sweat running down his face in spite of the cold air.

 

Arthur stopped suddenly, and Alfred almost ran into him. Luckily he stopped before they both toppled to the ground, and then Arthur ducked to the side. The king pressed his shoulder against the wall, and a column of stone bricks slowly opened to reveal a small passage. Alfred wasn't sure exactly how he was supposed to fit inside, but Arthur beckoned for him to enter first. Then the wall was closed, and they were subjected to darkness once more.

 

“The rain helps hide the sounds in the castle,” Arthur explained, and he shoved Alfred. They both ran down the path, and Arthur continued, about how the Danes weren't used to the heavy rains, and about how the English had the advantage over their foes because of their familiarity with the weather. Alfred had used the stone walls to keep himself balanced and aware of his surroundings, but then it suddenly disappeared. The temperature dropped, and when he stepped forward, the sound of his step echoed. He couldn't feel anything with his hands, and Arthur walked forward and confirmed that they were in a large room.

 

“There's nothing in here,” Arthur said. He grabbed Alfred's shoulder and led him through the darkness once again, until they found another wall. Arthur pressed Alfred's hand to the wall, and onto a metal handle. “This opens to another hall. Go straight, and when you get to the end, turn left. The door at the end will go to the dining hall. If he's as predictable as I think he is... He'll be in the room on the other end.”

 

Alfred hesitated, and used his free hand to find Arthur. When he grabbed Arthur's arm, he held him in place. He didn't want to voice what he was thinking, but the information that Arthur had been feeding him during their trip was bothering him.

 

“Are you leaving?”

 

Arthur slipped Alfred's hand from his arm. “Your job is to take care of Mathias. Mine is to find his mage. You'll be fine. From what I've seen, you're more than a match for him. You're _stronger_ than him. Just remember what I told you.”

 

Alfred wanted to object, but Arthur patted his shoulders, and then disappeared into the darkness. Alfred stood silently, clenching and loosening his fingers around the metal handle. He thought about the unfairness about the situation, but soon banished the complaints from his mind. He didn't have a choice anymore; actually, he had never had a choice, even in the beginning. He could only continue on and beat Mathias.

 

Alfred opened the door and followed the directions that Arthur had given him. He crept through the halls and jumped at every sound. It seemed to take forever to reach the dining hall with the pace he traveled at, and when he reached it he had to hide in a small compartment that Arthur had told him of during the trip through the tunnels. There had been no warning except for thundering footsteps, and Alfred had _just_ shut the panel on the front of the compartment when soldiers stormed through the dining room. He watched them through a crack in the panel, and noted where they came from. They came from the direction Arthur told him Mathias was in, and Alfred waited for the room to clear before he touched the sword at his side.

 

He waited at least ten more minutes before he left the compartment, and he slipped the sword from its sheath. He moved quickly to the door they had entered through, and peeked through the cracks around the frame.

 

It was hard to tell what was in the room, but after moving around and constantly changing direction, he managed to make out three people. He assumed that one was Mathias, and the other two guards of some sort. He itched to take up his gun and shoot, but he didn't need the rest of the soldiers rushing back to kill him. From the looks of it, they were all facing away from the doors. Alfred considered bursting in and attempting to subdue all three at the same time, but when he heard steps from behind, he hid behind a nearby cabinet and fell silent.

 

When the doors on the other end of the room opened and a soldier made his way to the door that led to Mathias, Alfred struck. He moved quickly, and with one swift thrust, pierced the soldier's body and silenced him. The soldier twitched and fell still, and Alfred quickly dragged him behind the cabinet. He tried not to think about how one of the soldier's friends may try to look for him, even while he stripped the man and switched their clothes. He was sure that the hastily-put-together disguise wouldn't work, but it would probably (hopefully) be able to distract them for enough time to gain an advantage. He wiped the blood from his blade and walked to the door. He took a breath, then pulled it open and walked in.

 

The two guards glanced back when Alfred entered, and then returned to the man Alfred identified as Mathias. Mathias looked up and narrowed his eyes, frowning at him.

 

Alfred wasn't sure _why_ Mathias hadn't ordered him to be struck down. He thought that _maybe_ Mathias hadn't noticed the fact that his sword was drawn; or maybe he believed that Alfred had already been caught in a battle and returned to report on what was happening. Whatever it was, he was grateful. The lack of action enabled him to raise his sword, and he swung it before him. It tore through the neck of one guard and the back of the other, and they fell to the ground before Mathias could react. Alfred whipped out his gun, and he aimed carefully.

 

Mathias was far too calm. He frowned at Alfred, then sat down in the chair that stood in the center of the room. He jabbed his thumb to the wall over his shoulder, but Alfred refused to look.

 

“I've done some redecorating,” Mathias said. His voice was light and cheery, and his eyes twinkled in the dim light from the large windows and the few lit torches. Alfred let his eyes flick up, and he clenched his teeth. He took a slow breath. There were the remains of a standard on the wall, burnt all the way to the flimsy rod that had held it above the ground and in sight of anyone that entered the room. The shape of the standard had become a part of the wall; the stone had been stained by the ash and fire, and the evidence of the destruction laid scattered on the floor.

 

Alfred looked back at Mathias, and his grip on the gun tightened. He wanted to wipe the smug smile off the man's face, and wanted to shove the red cape on Mathias's back down his throat.

 

“It's a nice place. Bit drab. Not a lot of color.” Mathias motioned to the bare walls, and the lone chair (which he sat in). “I'm thinking my standard should go on the east wall. I like the mark on the north. Reminds me of victory.”

 

At that, Alfred could no longer remain silent. “You have a gun aimed at your face,” he pointed out. “You're not the winner here.”

 

“If you fire that shot, my soldiers will fill this room. _You_ will be dead. My men aren't stupid enough to let someone get away.”

 

Alfred didn't know if what Mathias said was true or not, and he wasn't sure he wanted to risk it. Then again, Arthur had trusted him to take care of Mathias on his own. If Alfred could kill him without alerting anyone to their predicament, then the soldiers would find out about Mathias's death on _his_ terms. Then it would be easier to break their enemy's will and take back control of the kingdom. Far easier than if they saw their leader's last brave stand.

 

That meant that he couldn't risk using a gun. He raised his sword and slipped his gun back into its holster, and Mathias chuckled.

 

“You really intend to fight.” Mathias reached behind the chair without standing, and Alfred wished he had struck earlier. He didn't like the looks of the weapon that Mathias pulled forward. Alfred was confident in his abilities with a sword, but he wasn't sure how he would fare against a foe with an axe.

 

* * *

 

Arthur refused to think about Alfred. He had seen the man fight, had grown up in his care (though it was a rather odd situation), and trusted him to do what was right. Alfred was capable of handling himself, and he would be fine taking on Mathias.

 

Arthur had to concentrate on sneaking through the halls without being found by the enemy. He had to hide behind cabinets, suits of armor, and in hidden rooms to avoid being found by the groups of soldiers that explored the halls. He had been forced to remain inside one closet for almost twenty minutes, and had listened to the crashes of footsteps and the loud cheers and shouts. He had assumed that _his_ soldiers had attacked, and the thought lightened his mood. Mathias's soldiers were being redirected and distracted by the external attack, so that the invaders already within the castle walls were undetected in the chaos.

 

Arthur waited until the sounds had faded away, and then he left the closet and ran through the halls. He slipped in and out of hidden tunnels and rooms, and was forced to kill a wandering guard and hide the body. He kept his sword close, and considered using the guard's clothes as a disguise, but decided against it in the end. He would be recognized if he was seen anyway.

 

Arthur followed the halls that led to his bedroom. The closer he got, the more sure he was that he was getting closer to the mage. He managed to avoid the few people that still occupied the halls, and finally made his way to the short passage before his room. He tensed, sword in hand, but the doors to his room were unguarded.

 

Ever cautious, Arthur kept his sword raised even when he slipped in through the door, and found himself face to face with a man he had never seen before.

 

The man before him wasn't armed. Arthur glanced about the room to be sure that they were alone, and was surprised when he found that they actually _were_. Arthur then concentrated on the person before him, and he tightened his grip on the sword in his hand.

 

“I was waiting.”

 

Arthur didn't respond. He stared at the mage, and began to hate his bed. It was a weird and foolish thought; furniture had no sense of ownership or loyalty. It was _furniture._

 

Arthur narrowed his eyes. He thought briefly about the books he had read in his childhood. There was always a confrontation between enemies, and a _discussion_ about why evil would fall to the forces of good; evil was too arrogant and assured of its own victory. Its firm belief in success resulted in its collapse.

 

There would be no discussion.

 

Arthur charged. The mage was unsurprised by the action, even when Arthur's sword swung dangerously close to his neck. Arthur should have reconsidered his attack; his wild swing had left him open, and the mage took advantage of that.

 

 _Arthur burned._ His breath was torn away from him when one of the mage's hands brushed his shoulder. He gasped in a futile effort to take in air, and stumbled back. The mage didn't move, and watched while Arthur tried to collect himself. He had remained standing, but breathing was difficult.

 

Arthur glared at the mage, and then he drew his sword and lunged at the mage once more.

 

Arthur clipped the mage's hand, and watched the droplets of blood fall to the floor. He didn't pause his movements; he followed through, sword swinging back and the mage stepped back. His expression was passive, unchanging. He didn't seem to care that Arthur moved closer with every slash, his eyes narrowed and the intent to kill so obvious with every movement. Arthur struck once more, and the blade missed; however, his fist caught the mage in the side, and he caught the expression of surprise on the other's face before a wall of green light separated them.

 

The two were tossed back in opposite directions, and when Arthur collided with with his old desk (and cracked one of the legs, he noted with disdain), he mourned the fact that the mage was still standing, and looking at him with a rather odd (and almost sympathetic) expression on his face. Arthur had to fight to not curse aloud; that attack should have been stronger.

 

“You can't fight with magic,” the mage said, and Arthur glared. “It's too soon. You're still recovering.”

 

Arthur raised his sword, but the mage raised a hand. Arthur's arm jerked back and his sword was whipped away. It embedded itself into bureau, and Arthur shivered. It _wasn't_ fear; it was adrenaline. Arthur was presented with an enemy that he _knew_ he had to defeat, an enemy that had caused him more trouble than he had ever experienced before. Arthur had never seen the man's face before that moment, yet he had suffered through his soul being torn apart and tossed aside in his hands.

 

To say that Arthur was angry would probably be an understatement. He was oddly calm despite the fact that he was facing the man that had broken him; he was furious, but he channeled his anger and hatred into his strength and determination. He had seen soldiers fight with rage, and had seen their inevitable defeat when the adrenaline wore off, and they realized that anger and hatred _weren't enough_ to win a fight.

 

Through experience and observation, Arthur knew that blindly attacking and feeding off of his anger was stupid and would lead to failure; however, he also believed that keeping his anger in check would result in his success and victory.

 

He was probably wrong.

 

Arthur _tried_ to attack, just as the mage _tried_ to retaliate. In the end, they only managed to throw punches at each other, laced with magic and the intent to bring harm (though the mage's attacks seemed half-assed, and Arthur was sure he was hiding something). It was only after Arthur tried to curse him, and damage his vision or something equally destructive, that they both realized they were equally matched. It was that moment, with the understanding that Arthur would not stop until he was dead, that the mage twisted his hands and thrust out at Arthur, hitting him in the chest and pushing him back against a wall. Arthur felt something behind the hit, but ignored it. He was more concerned with taking the mage down than something that probably amounted to a tap.

 

Arthur decided to use fire. He could burn the mage alive, and if the fire didn't work... Well, he could come up with things as the situation changed. He found that it was easier to fight when he was pushed into a corner, and the temporary adrenaline burst could help in a pinch.

 

Except that the “tap” had apparently left its mark. Arthur could feel something moving deep within him, something burning and freezing cold at the same time. He recognized the feeling, and it terrified him. He recognized the strange crackling that filled his ears, and the sensation of his body being torn, pulled apart piece-by-piece. He grit his teeth and tried not to remember a bright blue light that had engulfed him once before, casting him away and ripping apart his soul.

 

He fought it. He tried not to think of how he was left open to the mage, and instead concentrated on defying the magic that threatened him. He grabbed at his stomach and wrapped his arms around himself, trying to keep himself together. He refused to let the magic consume and break him.

 

Arthur made a decision. He was sure that someday he would regret it, and hate himself for his choice. Just as he hated the fact that he had made Mathias angry enough to attack his country.

 

Arthur's hands darkened, as though he had smeared them with ash. His eyes sparkled, and for a moment everything stopped. There were no sounds, no movements. Time seemed to stop, and the mage watched in silence. Everything was on fire, then coated in ice, then bombarded by rain until there was nothing.

 

Everything was normal, as it had been. Nothing had changed, except that Arthur no longer feared losing himself to the mage's tricks. The mage had forsaken his blank expression for one of horror, and he ran to Arthur in a panic.

 

“You fool!” the mage shouted. Arthur twisted his body and struck at him, catching him in the stomach with his fist and knocking him back. The mage didn't strike back; he simply stood in place, staring at Arthur as though he had been wronged somehow. He looked caught between anger and hysteria, and Arthur grinned.

 

“Nice try.” Arthur tried to hide the fact that he was looking towards his sword, and trying to figure out how to tear it out of the wall.

 

“What have you done?” the mage asked softly. He had regained his composure and his apathetic expression, though Arthur was sure that he was hiding something. “What have you done?”

 

“You're not touching me again,” Arthur said. “I'm not going away.”

 

Neither moved. Arthur was waiting for something to happen, _anything_ , but the mage didn't attack. He stared at Arthur, and clenched his fists.

 

“You made a mistake,” the mage said quickly. He didn't give Arthur a chance to interrupt him. “I was only trying to stop you! I wasn't trying to curse you!”

 

“Am I supposed to believe you?” Arthur asked.

 

“We both know this has gone on long enough.” The mage looked at Arthur's sword, and he walked over and pulled it from the bureau. Pieces of wood fell to the ground, and the mage tossed the sword back towards Arthur. It hit the floor with a crash and slid across the floor until Arthur stopped it with his foot. “So stupid...” The mage paced, and Arthur slowly knelt to grab his sword. “How do you think you got this far?”

 

Arthur looked up slowly and narrowed his eyes.

 

“You think I didn't see you coming?! I didn't tell Mathias you were coming!” The mage clenched his fists. “What are we supposed to do now?!”

 

“I don't know,” Arthur muttered. “What exactly do you want to do?”

 

“I don't want to be here any more than you want _him_ to be here,” the mage snapped. He sighed and looked critically at Arthur. “What did you hope to accomplish with that, anyway?”

 

“You're not in control anymore,” Arthur pointed out. The mage's lip twitched, and he looked away.

 

“There were other ways.”

 

“It was going to happen eventually.” Arthur waited, but the mage was unwilling to do anything. He still paced, looking thoroughly disgusted with the situation. He looked up suddenly, and Arthur could hear the footsteps storming down the hall. He stood quickly and feared the worst. He hadn't noticed the passing time, and he worried.

 

What if Alfred had lost, and Mathias was on his way to take care of his last enemy? What if his soldiers were losing?

 

Arthur looked at the mage, but the man refused to return his look. Instead he watched the door, and Arthur raised his sword.

 

“The castle's being invaded!” The doors burst open to reveal a man with light blond hair (almost white) and eyes that looked almost red in the dim light. “Mathias sent everyone out to-”

 

The man stopped speaking when he saw Arthur, but it was too late. Arthur had thrust his elbow up with the intention of breaking his nose. The man moved back and away, then lunged for Arthur. Arthur was prepared for the fight, and returned the punch that the man threw at him. However, before he could continue the fight, the mage stepped forward. Arthur cursed his ill luck, but the hit that the mage landed was not for him; instead, the man he fought with dropped to the ground and didn't move.

 

“This has gone too far,” the mage said while Arthur stared at the motionless person on the floor. The mage stepped over the fallen man and into the hall. Arthur followed hesitantly, and the mage walked faster. “He came here for revenge. I don't see how he could possibly get revenge on you.” The mage looked back, and his eyes narrowed. “Your army, surprisingly, is the better army in this situation. I don't know _how_ you found the people you did, or where you came from, but I must say: well done.”

 

“You have better foresight than most,” Arthur guessed.

 

“I do.” The mage paused, then met Arthur's eyes. “Eirik,” he said, and Arthur nodded. “So you know who to thank for your rescue.”

 

“Even though we've already won?”


	19. Chapter 19

“He's my brother.”

 

Alfred looked over at Arthur, and slowly set his pistol down. A small lantern had been set on the ground between them, and the light around them flickered with the flames. He reached for his bag that had been retrieved from Comanche by messengers above ground, and pulled out the bullets within. There were more than he had owned, and he knew that the men had found more for him.

 

“Both of them are, actually,” Arthur continued. “Sean. Darren. Darren didn't speak though. He doesn't like any of this. He would've joined us in entering the castle, but Sean would be better if someone found us inside. He's far more violent than Darren.”

 

Alfred nodded. He carefully packed his things into a small bag, and then hung his pistol from his belt. His sword joined his gun, and he looked down the tunnel they sat in.

 

“Do they have these tunnels everywhere?” he asked.

 

“No one knows who built them.” Arthur shrugged. “My brothers and I have been through most of them, but I don't know how far they go.”

 

Alfred pulled his bag onto his back, and Arthur shifted. A wind swept through the tunnel and Alfred flinched when it howled.

 

“Sounds like they're coming,” Arthur said, and Alfred looked down the tunnel where they came from. There were foot steps in the distance, murmurs, and Arthur collected the few things that he had with him.

 

Alfred said nothing when they were joined by Sean and twenty soldiers, and aside from the rustling of clothing and the clinking of blades, there were no sounds. Sean and Arthur communicated by nodding at each other and motioning, and then the entire group moved together through the tunnel. Arthur held the lantern above his head to light the way, and Alfred found himself walking behind him. Arthur and Sean walked together, brothers, royalty, and Alfred was left with the soldiers.

 

Alfred didn't know why he thought of it that way. It had always been Arthur and him, equals, both trying to survive; however, in that moment, he felt an impossible distance between them, and he didn't understand why.

 

The soldiers looked curiously at Alfred while they walked, and he looked back at them. They nodded to him and he nodded in return. They remained that way for a long time while they walked beneath the earth, and after a time, one of the soldiers mentioned that they were most likely under the city. The other soldiers had nodded their agreement, but Alfred had been unable to. He didn't know the city. He only knew that they had traveled miles in the darkness, and he was more than ready to escape from the tunnels and return to the surface. He was ready to fight, and leave the apprehension (and something he refused to call _fear_ ) behind him. The walk was doing nothing except making him more excited and tense, and when he thought of the name _Mathias_ , he tightened his hands into fists.

 

His anger and desires went unnoticed. The soldiers had dropped back, until he was walking alone despite the fact that there were so many people in the cramped space. He was between the brothers and the soldiers, and when he thought about it, he felt alone.

 

It was an odd feeling, and fueled his anger. Had it not been for the invaders, he wouldn't have been involved in all of the plots and bids for power. He could've traveled as much as he wanted, claiming bounties and cleaning up England while camping out with Comanche.

 

He needed to stop thinking of the _if_ s. He needed to remember that he was in the _now_ , and that it was his duty to protect. Though the conflict seemed to revolve around Arthur and Mathias, the English and the Danes, it could spread if it wasn't stopped. It could leave England's shores and go to his home, where the people were sleeping safely in their beds with the thought that no one could breach their land.

 

Arthur abruptly stopped, and Alfred could finally hear their words.

 

“This is the one outside the main gates,” Arthur snapped. He had his arms crossed, and Alfred could see him scowling in the light. “There's another one up fifty meters that comes out in the yard.”

 

“This one is outside the town,” Sean insisted. “The next one is the gates, and then after that is the yard.”

 

“We passed the town a mile back!” Arthur looked like he wanted to punch his brother, and Alfred could see a small tunnel that turned to the right. “I've been down here a hell of a lot more than _you_ have, I _think_ I know what the hell I'm doing!”

 

“Do I need to remind you about the fact that you died?”

 

“I never _died_ , I was just out of sorts.” Arthur ignored his brother's snort. “I am telling you, the tunnel to the yard is the next turn. Not the one after that. And _this_ is the tunnel to the main gates.”

 

The soldiers had finally rejoined them, and Arthur looked past Sean. He looked to Alfred, and jerked his head to the side.

 

“We're entering the yard. Sean's going through the gates with the soldiers. We have the take the _next_ tunnel, while Sean takes this one.”

 

Sean looked ready to pummel his younger brother out of existence, but Arthur ignored him. He simply adjusted his bag and nodded to the other soldiers. Then he motioned for Alfred to follow.

 

Arthur never gave his brother a chance to follow. He ran through the darkness and dropped the lantern, and it shattered on the ground. The light was extinguished in a moment, and Sean would have no choice but to take the tunnel he was already at. Arthur had grabbed Alfred's wrist, and he pulled him along as though possessed.

 

Alfred wasn't sure what to do. He knew that they had to reach the tunnel and leave through the yard to infiltrate the castle. He also knew that they still had time before they had to enter. The soldiers had said that there was another hour before they planned to infiltrate the castle. Alfred wasn't sure if that included him and Arthur.

 

“Do we wait before we go in?” Alfred asked.

 

Arthur's fingers tightened around his wrist. “No,” he said. “We have work to do. They'll expect someone to enter during an invasion; hopefully they won't expect it before.” Once Arthur started talking, he didn't stop. He explained (in detail) the way to the main chambers of the castle, and where he thought Mathias would be hiding. He told Alfred about the turns, and the few shortcuts that were hidden behind staircases and false wall panels. They were shortcuts that had been used often by the children of the castle, pathways that made small children think that they were soldiers on a journey to discover a princess being kept captive by a dragon; they were shortcuts that were now going to help in a real invasion.

 

Arthur pulled Alfred to the side, and they moved through a separate tunnel, one that became smaller and smaller the farther in they moved. Alfred had to duck to avoid the ceiling of the tunnel, and the dirt scraped his back while he moved. Eventually they both had to crawl on their hands and knees, and Alfred was forced to stop when Arthur stopped suddenly before him. There was a low grating sound, and then Alfred could hear the sound of rain hitting the ground.

 

“Told him I was right,” Arthur whispered, and then he crept from the tunnel and onto grass.

 

Alfred followed Arthur, and tried to take in their new surroundings. Arthur had crept behind a large bush and looked around to see what could be hiding in the yard. There were trees and gardens all around them, and though the gardens were trampled and the area was darkened by the falling rain. Alfred looked around to see if he could find any distinguishing marks or monuments. The stone walls were a dull gray, and there was a long black mark that ran down the length, and out of sight around a corner. Arthur looked up, and Alfred followed his gaze to the windows above.

 

“Don't move,” Arthur breathed, and Alfred froze. “There's someone in the southern window.”

 

Alfred swallowed, and he slowly scanned the upper windows. He had to squint, and then he saw the shadow in the window. He was surprised that Arthur had been able to see it, and slowly backed himself to the stone wall behind. Arthur crept towards him and motioned towards another window, one that was almost level with the ground.

 

“Stay on the wall,” Arthur whispered. “I can open that window.”

 

Alfred nodded and moved forward. He glanced back and forth between the window and what was in front of his feet, and Arthur carefully pressed a hand between his shoulder blades to make him move faster. Alfred complied, and when they reached the window, Arthur urged him to move past it.

 

Arthur peered through the window and waited. He let his fingers glide along the stone around the window, and he pressed his nose against the frame. He looked inside, and then he pressed his fingers into the side of the window and pulled the entire frame out. Alfred was quick to grab his shoulders and steady him when the panel weighed him down, and Arthur set it carefully to the side. He motioned Alfred through, and they pulled it back into place after they had both crawled through.

 

“There are passages that only my brothers and I know about,” Arthur whispered, and then he led Alfred down the hall they were in. They had to move slowly to keep their steps silent and their presence undetected, and they could both feel the tension that fell over the castle. It was completely silent, and Alfred could feel sweat running down his face in spite of the cold air.

 

Arthur stopped suddenly, and Alfred almost ran into him. Luckily he stopped before they both toppled to the ground, and then Arthur ducked to the side. The king pressed his shoulder against the wall, and a column of stone bricks slowly opened to reveal a small passage. Alfred wasn't sure exactly how he was supposed to fit inside, but Arthur beckoned for him to enter first. Then the wall was closed, and they were subjected to darkness once more.

 

“The rain helps hide the sounds in the castle,” Arthur explained, and he shoved Alfred. They both ran down the path, and Arthur continued, about how the Danes weren't used to the heavy rains, and about how the English had the advantage over their foes because of their familiarity with the weather. Alfred had used the stone walls to keep himself balanced and aware of his surroundings, but then it suddenly disappeared. The temperature dropped, and when he stepped forward, the sound of his step echoed. He couldn't feel anything with his hands, and Arthur walked forward and confirmed that they were in a large room.

 

“There's nothing in here,” Arthur said. He grabbed Alfred's shoulder and led him through the darkness once again, until they found another wall. Arthur pressed Alfred's hand to the wall, and onto a metal handle. “This opens to another hall. Go straight, and when you get to the end, turn left. The door at the end will go to the dining hall. If he's as predictable as I think he is... He'll be in the room on the other end.”

 

Alfred hesitated, and used his free hand to find Arthur. When he grabbed Arthur's arm, he held him in place. He didn't want to voice what he was thinking, but the information that Arthur had been feeding him during their trip was bothering him.

 

“Are you leaving?”

 

Arthur slipped Alfred's hand from his arm. “Your job is to take care of Mathias. Mine is to find his mage. You'll be fine. From what I've seen, you're more than a match for him. You're _stronger_ than him. Just remember what I told you.”

 

Alfred wanted to object, but Arthur patted his shoulders, and then disappeared into the darkness. Alfred stood silently, clenching and loosening his fingers around the metal handle. He thought about the unfairness about the situation, but soon banished the complaints from his mind. He didn't have a choice anymore; actually, he had never had a choice, even in the beginning. He could only continue on and beat Mathias.

 

Alfred opened the door and followed the directions that Arthur had given him. He crept through the halls and jumped at every sound. It seemed to take forever to reach the dining hall with the pace he traveled at, and when he reached it he had to hide in a small compartment that Arthur had told him of during the trip through the tunnels. There had been no warning except for thundering footsteps, and Alfred had _just_ shut the panel on the front of the compartment when soldiers stormed through the dining room. He watched them through a crack in the panel, and noted where they came from. They came from the direction Arthur told him Mathias was in, and Alfred waited for the room to clear before he touched the sword at his side.

 

He waited at least ten more minutes before he left the compartment, and he slipped the sword from its sheath. He moved quickly to the door they had entered through, and peeked through the cracks around the frame.

 

It was hard to tell what was in the room, but after moving around and constantly changing direction, he managed to make out three people. He assumed that one was Mathias, and the other two guards of some sort. He itched to take up his gun and shoot, but he didn't need the rest of the soldiers rushing back to kill him. From the looks of it, they were all facing away from the doors. Alfred considered bursting in and attempting to subdue all three at the same time, but when he heard steps from behind, he hid behind a nearby cabinet and fell silent.

 

When the doors on the other end of the room opened and a soldier made his way to the door that led to Mathias, Alfred struck. He moved quickly, and with one swift thrust, pierced the soldier's body and silenced him. The soldier twitched and fell still, and Alfred quickly dragged him behind the cabinet. He tried not to think about how one of the soldier's friends may try to look for him, even while he stripped the man and switched their clothes. He was sure that the hastily-put-together disguise wouldn't work, but it would probably (hopefully) be able to distract them for enough time to gain an advantage. He wiped the blood from his blade and walked to the door. He took a breath, then pulled it open and walked in.

 

The two guards glanced back when Alfred entered, and then returned to the man Alfred identified as Mathias. Mathias looked up and narrowed his eyes, frowning at him.

 

Alfred wasn't sure _why_ Mathias hadn't ordered him to be struck down. He thought that _maybe_ Mathias hadn't noticed the fact that his sword was drawn; or maybe he believed that Alfred had already been caught in a battle and returned to report on what was happening. Whatever it was, he was grateful. The lack of action enabled him to raise his sword, and he swung it before him. It tore through the neck of one guard and the back of the other, and they fell to the ground before Mathias could react. Alfred whipped out his gun, and he aimed carefully.

 

Mathias was far too calm. He frowned at Alfred, then sat down in the chair that stood in the center of the room. He jabbed his thumb to the wall over his shoulder, but Alfred refused to look.

 

“I've done some redecorating,” Mathias said. His voice was light and cheery, and his eyes twinkled in the dim light from the large windows and the few lit torches. Alfred let his eyes flick up, and he clenched his teeth. He took a slow breath. There were the remains of a standard on the wall, burnt all the way to the flimsy rod that had held it above the ground and in sight of anyone that entered the room. The shape of the standard had become a part of the wall; the stone had been stained by the ash and fire, and the evidence of the destruction laid scattered on the floor.

 

Alfred looked back at Mathias, and his grip on the gun tightened. He wanted to wipe the smug smile off the man's face, and wanted to shove the red cape on Mathias's back down his throat.

 

“It's a nice place. Bit drab. Not a lot of color.” Mathias motioned to the bare walls, and the lone chair (which he sat in). “I'm thinking my standard should go on the east wall. I like the mark on the north. Reminds me of victory.”

 

At that, Alfred could no longer remain silent. “You have a gun aimed at your face,” he pointed out. “You're not the winner here.”

 

“If you fire that shot, my soldiers will fill this room. _You_ will be dead. My men aren't stupid enough to let someone get away.”

 

Alfred didn't know if what Mathias said was true or not, and he wasn't sure he wanted to risk it. Then again, Arthur had trusted him to take care of Mathias on his own. If Alfred could kill him without alerting anyone to their predicament, then the soldiers would find out about Mathias's death on _his_ terms. Then it would be easier to break their enemy's will and take back control of the kingdom. Far easier than if they saw their leader's last brave stand.

 

That meant that he couldn't risk using a gun. He raised his sword and slipped his gun back into its holster, and Mathias chuckled.

 

“You really intend to fight.” Mathias reached behind the chair without standing, and Alfred wished he had struck earlier. He didn't like the looks of the weapon that Mathias pulled forward. Alfred was confident in his abilities with a sword, but he wasn't sure how he would fare against a foe with an axe.

 

* * *

 

Arthur refused to think about Alfred. He had seen the man fight, had grown up in his care (though it was a rather odd situation), and trusted him to do what was right. Alfred was capable of handling himself, and he would be fine taking on Mathias.

 

Arthur had to concentrate on sneaking through the halls without being found by the enemy. He had to hide behind cabinets, suits of armor, and in hidden rooms to avoid being found by the groups of soldiers that explored the halls. He had been forced to remain inside one closet for almost twenty minutes, and had listened to the crashes of footsteps and the loud cheers and shouts. He had assumed that _his_ soldiers had attacked, and the thought lightened his mood. Mathias's soldiers were being redirected and distracted by the external attack, so that the invaders already within the castle walls were undetected in the chaos.

 

Arthur waited until the sounds had faded away, and then he left the closet and ran through the halls. He slipped in and out of hidden tunnels and rooms, and was forced to kill a wandering guard and hide the body. He kept his sword close, and considered using the guard's clothes as a disguise, but decided against it in the end. He would be recognized if he was seen anyway.

 

Arthur followed the halls that led to his bedroom. The closer he got, the more sure he was that he was getting closer to the mage. He managed to avoid the few people that still occupied the halls, and finally made his way to the short passage before his room. He tensed, sword in hand, but the doors to his room were unguarded.

 

Ever cautious, Arthur kept his sword raised even when he slipped in through the door, and found himself face to face with a man he had never seen before.

 

The man before him wasn't armed. Arthur glanced about the room to be sure that they were alone, and was surprised when he found that they actually _were_. Arthur then concentrated on the person before him, and he tightened his grip on the sword in his hand.

 

“I was waiting.”

 

Arthur didn't respond. He stared at the mage, and began to hate his bed. It was a weird and foolish thought; furniture had no sense of ownership or loyalty. It was _furniture._

 

Arthur narrowed his eyes. He thought briefly about the books he had read in his childhood. There was always a confrontation between enemies, and a _discussion_ about why evil would fall to the forces of good; evil was too arrogant and assured of its own victory. Its firm belief in success resulted in its collapse.

 

There would be no discussion.

 

Arthur charged. The mage was unsurprised by the action, even when Arthur's sword swung dangerously close to his neck. Arthur should have reconsidered his attack; his wild swing had left him open, and the mage took advantage of that.

 

 _Arthur burned._ His breath was torn away from him when one of the mage's hands brushed his shoulder. He gasped in a futile effort to take in air, and stumbled back. The mage didn't move, and watched while Arthur tried to collect himself. He had remained standing, but breathing was difficult.

 

Arthur glared at the mage, and then he drew his sword and lunged at the mage once more.

 

Arthur clipped the mage's hand, and watched the droplets of blood fall to the floor. He didn't pause his movements; he followed through, sword swinging back and the mage stepped back. His expression was passive, unchanging. He didn't seem to care that Arthur moved closer with every slash, his eyes narrowed and the intent to kill so obvious with every movement. Arthur struck once more, and the blade missed; however, his fist caught the mage in the side, and he caught the expression of surprise on the other's face before a wall of green light separated them.

 

The two were tossed back in opposite directions, and when Arthur collided with with his old desk (and cracked one of the legs, he noted with disdain), he mourned the fact that the mage was still standing, and looking at him with a rather odd (and almost sympathetic) expression on his face. Arthur had to fight to not curse aloud; that attack should have been stronger.

 

“You can't fight with magic,” the mage said, and Arthur glared. “It's too soon. You're still recovering.”

 

Arthur raised his sword, but the mage raised a hand. Arthur's arm jerked back and his sword was whipped away. It embedded itself into bureau, and Arthur shivered. It _wasn't_ fear; it was adrenaline. Arthur was presented with an enemy that he _knew_ he had to defeat, an enemy that had caused him more trouble than he had ever experienced before. Arthur had never seen the man's face before that moment, yet he had suffered through his soul being torn apart and tossed aside in his hands.

 

To say that Arthur was angry would probably be an understatement. He was oddly calm despite the fact that he was facing the man that had broken him; he was furious, but he channeled his anger and hatred into his strength and determination. He had seen soldiers fight with rage, and had seen their inevitable defeat when the adrenaline wore off, and they realized that anger and hatred _weren't enough_ to win a fight.

 

Through experience and observation, Arthur knew that blindly attacking and feeding off of his anger was stupid and would lead to failure; however, he also believed that keeping his anger in check would result in his success and victory.

 

He was probably wrong.

 

Arthur _tried_ to attack, just as the mage _tried_ to retaliate. In the end, they only managed to throw punches at each other, laced with magic and the intent to bring harm (though the mage's attacks seemed half-assed, and Arthur was sure he was hiding something). It was only after Arthur tried to curse him, and damage his vision or something equally destructive, that they both realized they were equally matched. It was that moment, with the understanding that Arthur would not stop until he was dead, that the mage twisted his hands and thrust out at Arthur, hitting him in the chest and pushing him back against a wall. Arthur felt something behind the hit, but ignored it. He was more concerned with taking the mage down than something that probably amounted to a tap.

 

Arthur decided to use fire. He could burn the mage alive, and if the fire didn't work... Well, he could come up with things as the situation changed. He found that it was easier to fight when he was pushed into a corner, and the temporary adrenaline burst could help in a pinch.

 

Except that the “tap” had apparently left its mark. Arthur could feel something moving deep within him, something burning and freezing cold at the same time. He recognized the feeling, and it terrified him. He recognized the strange crackling that filled his ears, and the sensation of his body being torn, pulled apart piece-by-piece. He grit his teeth and tried not to remember a bright blue light that had engulfed him once before, casting him away and ripping apart his soul.

 

He fought it. He tried not to think of how he was left open to the mage, and instead concentrated on defying the magic that threatened him. He grabbed at his stomach and wrapped his arms around himself, trying to keep himself together. He refused to let the magic consume and break him.

 

Arthur made a decision. He was sure that someday he would regret it, and hate himself for his choice. Just as he hated the fact that he had made Mathias angry enough to attack his country.

 

Arthur's hands darkened, as though he had smeared them with ash. His eyes sparkled, and for a moment everything stopped. There were no sounds, no movements. Time seemed to stop, and the mage watched in silence. Everything was on fire, then coated in ice, then bombarded by rain until there was nothing.

 

Everything was normal, as it had been. Nothing had changed, except that Arthur no longer feared losing himself to the mage's tricks. The mage had forsaken his blank expression for one of horror, and he ran to Arthur in a panic.

 

“You fool!” the mage shouted. Arthur twisted his body and struck at him, catching him in the stomach with his fist and knocking him back. The mage didn't strike back; he simply stood in place, staring at Arthur as though he had been wronged somehow. He looked caught between anger and hysteria, and Arthur grinned.

 

“Nice try.” Arthur tried to hide the fact that he was looking towards his sword, and trying to figure out how to tear it out of the wall.

 

“What have you done?” the mage asked softly. He had regained his composure and his apathetic expression, though Arthur was sure that he was hiding something. “What have you done?”

 

“You're not touching me again,” Arthur said. “I'm not going away.”

 

Neither moved. Arthur was waiting for something to happen, _anything_ , but the mage didn't attack. He stared at Arthur, and clenched his fists.

 

“You made a mistake,” the mage said quickly. He didn't give Arthur a chance to interrupt him. “I was only trying to stop you! I wasn't trying to curse you!”

 

“Am I supposed to believe you?” Arthur asked.

 

“We both know this has gone on long enough.” The mage looked at Arthur's sword, and he walked over and pulled it from the bureau. Pieces of wood fell to the ground, and the mage tossed the sword back towards Arthur. It hit the floor with a crash and slid across the floor until Arthur stopped it with his foot. “So stupid...” The mage paced, and Arthur slowly knelt to grab his sword. “How do you think you got this far?”

 

Arthur looked up slowly and narrowed his eyes.

 

“You think I didn't see you coming?! I didn't tell Mathias you were coming!” The mage clenched his fists. “What are we supposed to do now?!”

 

“I don't know,” Arthur muttered. “What exactly do you want to do?”

 

“I don't want to be here any more than you want _him_ to be here,” the mage snapped. He sighed and looked critically at Arthur. “What did you hope to accomplish with that, anyway?”

 

“You're not in control anymore,” Arthur pointed out. The mage's lip twitched, and he looked away.

 

“There were other ways.”

 

“It was going to happen eventually.” Arthur waited, but the mage was unwilling to do anything. He still paced, looking thoroughly disgusted with the situation. He looked up suddenly, and Arthur could hear the footsteps storming down the hall. He stood quickly and feared the worst. He hadn't noticed the passing time, and he worried.

 

What if Alfred had lost, and Mathias was on his way to take care of his last enemy? What if his soldiers were losing?

 

Arthur looked at the mage, but the man refused to return his look. Instead he watched the door, and Arthur raised his sword.

 

“The castle's being invaded!” The doors burst open to reveal a man with light blond hair (almost white) and eyes that looked almost red in the dim light. “Mathias sent everyone out to-”

 

The man stopped speaking when he saw Arthur, but it was too late. Arthur had thrust his elbow up with the intention of breaking his nose. The man moved back and away, then lunged for Arthur. Arthur was prepared for the fight, and returned the punch that the man threw at him. However, before he could continue the fight, the mage stepped forward. Arthur cursed his ill luck, but the hit that the mage landed was not for him; instead, the man he fought with dropped to the ground and didn't move.

 

“This has gone too far,” the mage said while Arthur stared at the motionless person on the floor. The mage stepped over the fallen man and into the hall. Arthur followed hesitantly, and the mage walked faster. “He came here for revenge. I don't see how he could possibly get revenge on you.” The mage looked back, and his eyes narrowed. “Your army, surprisingly, is the better army in this situation. I don't know _how_ you found the people you did, or where you came from, but I must say: well done.”

 

“You have better foresight than most,” Arthur guessed.

 

“I do.” The mage paused, then met Arthur's eyes. “Eirik,” he said, and Arthur nodded. “So you know who to thank for your rescue.”

 

“Even though we've already won?”

 

* * *

 

 

Alfred and Mathias were putting everything they had into the fight. Alfred was set on taking Mathias's head, and Mathias wanted something to display to the soldiers (ally and enemy alike) to show his might and power over those that fought him. They both suffered from the battle; Alfred had a gash over his eyes, and his movements were awkward after Mathias had caught him under the knee. Mathias had suffered a deep cut on his wrist and by his elbow, and some of his swings were wide and out of control.

 

Alfred found it more and more difficult to keep Mathias at bay, while at the same time Mathias found it difficult to keep his attacks controlled enough to land some hits. Alfred tried to find an opening when he wasn't busy trying to protect himself, but it was impossible to attack while defending himself.

 

Then Mathias shouted something, and Alfred stared at the thin arms that had wrapped themselves around Mathias's neck. The Dane twisted and turned to get his second attacker off, and Alfred charged forward. Alfred swung his sword and had to stop abruptly when Mathias turned so that Arthur was between them.

 

Arthur had wrapped his legs awkwardly around Mathias's waist, and went between trying to kick him in the groin to attacking his knee. Alfred wasn't sure where he was supposed to attack; Mathias made sure to turn and keep Arthur between them, intent on protecting himself with the king.

 

“What're you fighting for, Mathias?” Arthur hissed, and he panted while he held on. “My people are winning, _not_ yours.” He grunted when Mathias turned, and dug his fingers into Mathias's throat. Mathias tried to hit at Arthur with his ax, but the position was too awkward for an attack. “Why do you think I'm _here_ , Mathias?” Arthur whispered in his ear. “I already saw your mage.”

 

Mathias tensed, and Alfred took his chance. He swung and narrowly clipped Mathias's leg while Mathias slammed into one of the stone walls, and Arthur cursed.

 

Arthur was pulled from Mathias's back and he hit the ground with a groan. Mathias turned to strike, deciding on taking out the country's leader despite the man that was already trying to get in the way and make up for the hits missed when Arthur was on Mathias's back.

 

Arthur narrowly avoided the falling ax, and he scrambled to the side to avoid Mathias's second attempted hit He missed how Alfred attacked and Matthias blocked the sword with the ax handle, and then Alfred shifted his weight. His sword slid down the handle of the ax, and then tore into the skin on Mathias's hand and arm. Mathias shouted and pulled his hand back, the ax swinging wildly and throwing him off balance. Alfred moved back and prepared for another strike (or to jump in front of Arthur if Mathias switched his attention), but Mathias turned in a new direction entirely. He didn't look at Alfred or Arthur, and Alfred wasn't sure how he should prepare for some kind of attack.

 

Mathias dropped his ax, and it narrowly missed Arthur's leg. His arms hung limply at his sides and he froze up, as though he had been paralyzed. His lips parted and a groan escaped them, his eyes narrowing.

 

“I think you've done enough,” Eirik said from his position on the doorway. He had his arms crossed, and looked disinterested in what he had stumbled in on.

 

Alfred looked at Eirik in surprise and confusion, and Mathias's look passed between Arthur and Eirik. Arthur glared up at him, and he returned the look.

 

“Traitor,” Mathias spat.

 

Arthur stood slowly, and steadied himself using the wall. Alfred walked over slowly, casting wary glances at Mathias, but Mathias could move nothing but his head.

 

“Your soldiers are losing,” Eirik said bluntly. “Even if you kill the king, there are other royals. Other people will take control. The people will cry, but then they'll celebrate their victory.” Eirik narrowed his eyes. “They'll celebrate your defeat, and your death.”

 

“This is because of you!” Mathias snapped. “You had a job, and this is-”

 

“You were losing before he did anything,” Arthur snapped. He motioned to Eirik. “There's a prison outside the castle. We'll take him there. Alfred?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I'll leave the castle to help outside once we're done with him.”

 

Alfred nodded and looked down at his sword, and his the blood that stained his hands red. “I'll go out then,” he muttered, and Arthur nodded to him.

 

'Don't die.” Arthur didn't look at him. He was too busy maneuvering the motionless Dane.

 

“Same to you,” Alfred mumbled, and he turned to find his way out of the castle.

 

* * *

 

There had been far more at play than what Alfred had been informed of. He had left the palace and entered the battle—or, what had _been_ the battle. Mathias's soldiers had been killed or taken hostage; Arthur's soldiers roamed the streets and checked to see who had lived during the battle. There were far more soldiers than Alfred had known about, and he suspected that wandering groups had learned about the siege and joined the fray.

 

There hadn't been much for him to do. He had wandered the streets, spoken with the fighters, and helped to kill those that still wanted power and victory. He had delivered news of Mathias's defeat and Arthur's life, and then people had cried out for the king that had appeared in the rain, walking out to see his people and prove that he was still alive.

 

Alfred smiled with them. He cheered with them. Arthur caught his eye once and smirked, and then he marched into the depths of his soldiers.

 

It was then that Alfred realized the trip with Arthur was over. It was a very sudden realization, and left him staring at the spot where Arthur had been. Arthur was a king. He had responsibilities. He had people. He had to uphold an image, an image that _didn't_ include traipsing around his country with some American citizen.

 

Of course, Alfred could go alone. He could still travel the lands and see things he had never seen before. He'd experience new things, take Comanche through new challenges and then he'd return home to see his family again. He didn't really know what he'd do then, but he would make do.

 

Things would just be normal again. Normal was good. Both of them would be where they belonged.

  
Both of them.

 

* * *

 

Arthur insisted that Alfred remain in the capital, instead of immediately leaving on his trip with Comanche. Alfred didn't protest. He was given a room within the castle walls, a few halls down from Arthur's bedroom.

 

Alfred had offered to work on helping rebuild the town, and Arthur had readily taken him up on the offer. Riders left the town to gather supplies and find the citizens that had fled, and every day more people arrived to help with the reconstruction. Alfred helped with building and removing bodies, and he watched while women and men alike tried to cleanse their home of the blood that had been spilled.

 

Arthur never made it to the city to help, though Alfred swore that the king left his room in the middle of the night to visit the city. It would explain the overnight changes, and why Arthur supposedly never got up until the day's work was well underway. Then he would be beckoned to his office by one of his people, and would remain there during the day, making decisions about how to proceed with the prisoners, and the restoration and reconstruction.

 

Alfred told himself he didn't mind the fact that he could never see Arthur. Even when Chelles suddenly arrived overnight and was ushered into quarters, and rumors began to fly around about the new queen.

 

When the rumors began to fly, Alfred started working faster, and people talked about how enthusiastic he was, and how he blew through his work with no problem. He tried to ignore the talk about a “royal wedding,” and the little old woman that always invited him into conversation about beautiful white dresses and how many roses would have to be used to decorate the courtyard.

 

Alfred worked alongside the people for almost a month when he was called back inside to meet with Arthur. He was all-too-happy to meet with the man and talk with him after being apart for so long. It felt like there had been a lot left unsaid before the reconstruction, and despite the fact that he enjoyed working with the people to rebuild lives, he kinda missed annoying the stodgy old king.

 

“Hey Artie!” Alfred shouted when he burst through the doors to the office. He was slightly surprised by the woman in pigtails that sat in a large chair in the corner, though he shouldn't have. The rumors about Chelles and Arthur hadn't lessened at all in the time since she had arrived, and he knew that they were rarely apart. He refused to be _jealous_ of that (he didn't understand where the hell that jealousy could come from), and grinned.

 

“It's been a while,” Arthur said, and he glanced up at Alfred. There were dark bags under his eyes, and he had gained a little bit of weight so he wasn't skeletal like before. “I've been thinking about it, and wanted to offer you a reward for your service in fighting against an enemy that wasn't your own.”

 

Alfred tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “I think you need it more than me,” he pointed out. “I mean... I don't have to rebuild a country.”

 

Arthur sighed in relief, though he tried to hide it behind a cough. “That's... That's very admirable about you.”

 

“I'm a hero. Heroes don't take money for their deeds!”

 

“In what way are _you_ a hero?” Arthur goaded, and Alfred crossed his arms.

 

“How am I not a hero?”

 

Arthur shook his head and glanced over at Chelles, then returned his gaze to Alfred. “It would take too long to explain,” he said. He drummed his fingers on the desk before him while he tried to think of something to say. “When are you heading back home?”

 

Alfred was taken aback by the question. He had thought a lot of returning home. He just hadn't thought that Arthur would ask him _that,_ of all things. “Why?”

 

“The ships to America are sailing again. When you leave, I'm sending my seal with you. There's no reason for you to pay to go home.”

 

“I guess,” Alfred waved a hand before his face, “but they can use the money.”

 

“Well, you'll have the seal anyway.”

 

“Yeah.” Alfred grinned. “I can show people how I saved the amazing king's butt!”

 

“Don't get ahead of yourself,” Arthur warned, and Chelles coughed. Arthur looked over at her, and she jerked her head pointedly towards Alfred. Arthur hesitated, but Alfred spoke before Arthur could do anything.

 

“I've gotta go. There's this old lady that needs her door fixed. Don't wanna leave her in the cold tonight!” Alfred walked back to the door, and he waved at Arthur. “I'll be back before I go. See you!”

 

Alfred ran back to the city without stopping. He threw himself into his work, the conversation weighing on his mind. He shrugged when the old woman asked if he had seen the king together with the future queen, and avoided other questions. He returned to the palace late at night when no one would see him, and slept like a rock. If he noticed that the door was open (or closed) when he woke, and it hadn't been that way when he slept, he didn't pay it any mind. He simply returned to the town and worked until it was time to sleep again. He would eat what was offered, but avoided the meals in the castle lest he run into the couple within.

 

Life continued that way for another month. It was then that Alfred finally decided to return home. He met briefly with Arthur, told him that he needed to get to the ships as soon as possible, and left quickly. The wax on his letter barely had time to cool before he was on Comanche and fleeing the country.

 

He had to return home. He couldn't stay in England any longer.


	20. Chapter 20

Alfred paid to sail home. He settled Comanche into one of the many stalls and then wandered between the stall and the deck. He would either lean over the rail and watch the waves when he was on deck, or he would sit on the floor and lean against Comanche's door when he was inside.

 

The crew never bothered him. They grunted at him when they saw him, and occasionally dropped down beside him with a bite to eat and a few words. Then they would leave him to work, and Alfred would watch the water or fool around with Comanche in his stall. He planned out what he would do when he landed on his home shore, from the path he would take home, to the first thing he would say to his brother. He tried to figure out who he would visit first after seeing his brother, and whether he would go hunting so that they could have a huge meal to celebrate his return. He missed having deer.

 

Alfred saddled Comanche when he heard the crew members shouting, and prepared to leave the ship. Someone went to collect him, and he followed them from the ship and to the docks. The first thing he noticed was how bright everything was, and he wondered if he had remained inside for too long, or if England was just naturally dreary and he wasn't used to bright places anymore.

 

It took everything Alfred had _not_ to kiss the ground when he arrived home. Though, admittedly, had he been in a better mood he would have readily gotten down on his hands and knees to kiss the grass. Instead he saddled up, trying not to get stepped on when Comanche began to dance. He could only imagine that Comanche recognized the air, and that he was excited to return home. When he finally mounted, Comanche didn't hesitate to move straight into a lope, and Alfred gasped when he slipped back in the saddle. He felt around with his foot to find his stirrup, and when he finally slid his feet onto the bar, he straightened.

 

Home was better than he had remembered. The wind through his hair, the feeling of matching his every movement with Comanche, letting the reins drop on the stallion's neck and shifting his weight to guide him; he had forgotten how much his home had meant to him, and how familiar it was. Where else could he run as far as he could see, and know where every hole and nest was?

 

England had been cool, but it had been nothing like America. Yes, America had been in a war before. Yes, Alfred had fought in that war, and proven himself to be a force to be reckoned with. However, fighting another country's war felt so different, and the things lost in the beginning couldn't be forgotten. He wondered if he'd ever be able to forget Iggy's face when he thought of England, even though he'd met Arthur there.

 

But Arthur was a king. Simple friendships had no place in a kingdom, he was sure. Monarchs were supposed to rule with an iron fist, and petty distractions from other lands had no place in the kingdom. And with Chelles by Arthur's side to bear heirs... Well, there was no place for Arthur. Chelles was Arthur's friend, and had known him longest. Old friendships were better than new ones.

 

Alfred decided to let it go. Passing through groves of trees, and alongside meadows and fields, he had to keep his eye on what was in front of him, what was real.

 

What he could touch, and hold onto.

 

“Matt!” Alfred shouted when he passed meadows and found himself riding alongside crops that had yet to sprout from the ground. He scanned the land, looking past the golden brown soil and trying to see as far out as the trees in the distance. The house he had lived in with his brother stood at the end of the path he was on, and he could see the fences that stretched between the house and the barn and beyond. He squinted, trying to see the horses that were supposed to be in the pasture, when something caught his attention.

 

A horse stood in the field to his right, grazing in the grass of a small apple orchard. Alfred shifted and Comanche slowed to a walk, kicking out with a hind foot in a show of excitement and impatience. Alfred slapped his neck then rubbed him, and turned him towards the lone horse.

 

Comanche was more than willing, and it was then that Alfred recognized the horse. It was Belle, one of the breeding mares that they kept. She was levelheaded (which was a lot more than could be said of most mares), and had always produced good foals. Alfred looked around quickly, then clucked his tongue. Comanche walked towards the mare, and Alfred snagged the robe attached to her halter when they neared her. She stared at him for a moment, then nudged his knee. Comanche, likely annoyed with the closeness, or whatever it was that he didn't like, nipped her, and a squeal erupted from her that almost rendered Alfred deaf.

 

“Ah!” Alfred cursed and tried to keep the mare from nipping back, all while Comanche danced in place like a fool. “Will you stop that?! You idiot!” Comanche settled, and Alfred used that moment of peace to look Belle over. “And what're you doing out?”

 

“She was with me.”

 

Alfred almost dropped both the rope and Comanche's reins. He looked around to find the source of the voice, and tightened his grip on them. Then something fell out of the tree to his left, and he did _not_ squeal like a little girl. Matthew was just a liar, and liked using his extreme plainness and lack of presence to _try_ to scare people.

 

Alfred also did _not_ try to pull him up onto Comanche for a hug. Because that would just be stupid. Nor did he jump on him. Because that was totally childish.

 

He might've patted him on the back though. In a totally manly-heroic-awesome way.

* * *

 

Life was good. Alfred could live happily at home, helping his brother out with the livestock and the crops. He had forgotten how boring-yet-fulfilling it was working on the farm. They hired local kids to help when it was time for harvest and planting, and Alfred had fun chasing them around the property pretending that he had been bitten by a zombie (or something equally terrifying; he would never admit that a lot of times when he did that, he had nightmares those nights). He taught some of the kids to ride the horses, and had taken them out to help him herd cattle and other livestock that wandered their property. Admittedly, it took longer having the kids help out, but it was definitely more fun (even if they managed to destroy a few fence lines during their escapades).

 

Eventually, Alfred and Matthew built a small bunkhouse by the main barn, and hired help. They ended up hiring two people, some Italian and his Spanish friend, and with the help of the local kids, work went faster than ever before. Watching the hands work was hilarious, as they couldn't keep their hands off each other while they worked (rather, the Italian couldn't keep his hands off the Spaniard's neck). There was also the added bonus of having more people join them for meals, which was always fun.

 

Time flew by. Alfred tried to forget about the war and England, and after telling his brother about what had happened, they didn't talk about it again. Alfred didn't want to think about it; there was too much he didn't understand, and a lot he didn't _want_ to understand.

 

It felt like only a month had gone by when Alfred realized that a year had passed. The realization surprised him, and what surprised him more was that he hadn't even spent a year in England. He had been in England for only a few months; it seemed an impossibly short time considering what they had done. Being away from England for a year felt like a milestone, and Alfred found himself wondering what Arthur was up to.

 

Of course, when a cloaked stranger showed up on his doorstep, he realized that he really didn't want to know.

 

Matthew had been the one to greet the stranger, and invite him in for coffee. The man had declined the drink, but had accepted Matthew's offer of biscuits and cookies. Not much was said between them, and when Alfred wandered in from checking the cattle in the fields, his eyes widened. He gaped at the man, recognizing his height and stature, and then the eyes that stared at him from beneath the dark hood.

 

“Alfred,” he greeted, and Alfred swallowed.

 

“Long time no see,” Alfred said. He forced himself to smile, and waved a hand. “How's royalty been treating you?”

 

Arthur stared at Alfred, and to his surprise, the king groaned.

 

“Royalty can kiss my arse.” Arthur scowled, and Matthew blinked. Alfred was going to laugh, but then he tilted his head to the side.

 

“I thought you guys liked kings and royalty and stuff.” Before Arthur could answer, Alfred waved his hand. “Wait, what? Why're you here?”

 

Arthur simply stared. Then he groaned, and probably died a little inside. “Finally you ask the obvious question,” he muttered. “Figures. You're still amazingly slow.”

 

“You caught on fast,” Matthew muttered, and Alfred glared at him.

 

“Still,” Alfred continued, “why're you here? Don't you have work? And Chelles?”

 

Arthur looked confused. He narrowed his eyes at Alfred, then finally reached up to lower his hood. Alfred shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He had expected some kind of chance, but really, Arthur looked the same as he ever had.

 

“What does Chelles have to do with anything?” Arthur demanded, and Alfred shrugged. Arthur waited a moment longer, but when Alfred said nothing, he moved on to another topic. “My brother Darren is king.”

 

Alfred waited for something else, but when Arthur simply shrugged and said “it's true,” he let his jaw drop open and his eyebrows contort in confusion.

 

“I thought you were the king!”

 

“I was. But being a king is boring, so I gave it to Darren.”

 

“And now you're here.”

 

“I'm here,” Arthur agreed, and his voice was so point-blank and calm that Alfred almost imagined him sipping tea or something. The more he thought about it, the more he realized he was a little annoyed. “I thought I'd do some traveling, have a bit of fun.”

 

“You know how to have fun?” Alfred blurted, and Matthew stared at him. Arthur turned red, and he clasped his hands together tightly. Alfred didn't know why he felt some sort of satisfaction at how angry Arthur looked, but he certainly wasn't going to complain (or point it out).

 

“I will admit, some of it was... there was a lot left unsaid before you left,” Arthur admitted. It was at that time that Matthew left the room, and Alfred dropped down in the chair that his brother had left. “I thought you'd like some clarification, and to know some truths about things.”

 

“That'd be cool, I guess,” Alfred said, and he stared at Arthur. He willed himself to keep his expression blank. He hadn't known anything at all when he had left, and he had regretted it. Given a chance to hear what had happened, and why—it was too good to pass up. “You kill Mathias?”

 

“His father offered a reward for his return,” Arthur told him, and the man finally seemed to relax into his chair. “England came out of it a great deal richer. The mage went as well.” Arthur sounded impressed with himself, and Alfred wasn't sure what to make of his words.

 

“You just let him go?” Alfred finally muttered. “After all that?”

 

“There was a lot going on behind the scenes.” Arthur shrugged and waved a hand.

 

“What was with you saying the mage was dead? Why was he hanging around?”

 

“I don't think he knew what he was doing. He wanted to help Mathias, but at the same time, he wanted to stop him.” Arthur stopped speaking when Alfred adjusted his position, so that he was awkwardly leaning over the sides of the chair he was in. Alfred made a great show of twisting and turning, and toed his boots off so that they hit the floor with a loud _thud_.

 

“Because invading a foreign land is something you can do without knowing if you really wanna do it,” Alfred grumbled.

 

“He wasn't the one making the decisions,” Arthur pointed out. “He was only following Mathias. He knew that his allegiance was with Mathias; changing sides wasn't something he was willing to do. That was why he let us in without telling anyone we were coming. It's also why he couldn't decide if I should die or not.”

 

“You never told me about your fight.” Alfred wiggled in place, and Arthur stared at him. The excess movement was distracting during a conversation. “How'd you win? I mean... You weren't gone that long. Must've been pretty easy.”

 

“He was confused. He didn't know whether to split my soul into pieces, or take me directly back to you. It's easy to defeat someone that doesn't know what they're fighting for. _Do you need to go outside or something?_ ”

 

Alfred stopped fidgeting. His legs were hanging over one arm of his chair, and his upper body was perched against the other. He looked surprised to have been called out on his movements, and tilted his head to the side (or down, depending on how one looked at his position). “No,” he said slowly. “Why?”

 

 

 

“I think it's obvious _why_ ,” Arthur grumbled. He clasped his hands in his lap. “You're like a puppy or some rubbish.”

 

“We have some puppies in the barn!”

Arthur just sighed. It seemed that Alfred was done listening. Honestly, Arthur was surprised he had listened for that long. Alfred was the type to lose concentration when it came to something that bored him, and Arthur was sure that talking about a battle was one of the worst offenses for the American. He wanted to laugh about it, but the fact that Alfred became bored in the middle of _his_ story was rather insulting and rude.  


  
 

Arthur would have pointed it out, except that Matthew had re-entered the room with more biscuits and cookies, as well as a small bundle pinned between his arm and body. Matthew looked towards Arthur, and the bundle began to move.

  
 

“He was whining. I gave him some milk.”

  
 

Arthur took the bundle, and Alfred stiffened in his chair . Arthur adjusted the bundle in his arms, adjusting his position and trying to raise the small figure. Alfred's mouth had gone try, and he found it difficult to swallow. He was looking at a small bundle that hid a child. He didn't want to see within the blankets; he didn't want to see how the child reflected the best parts of both Arthur and Chelles. He couldn't explain his irrational fear and opposition to the child, and it took everything Alfred had to _not_ flee the room. As it was, he was forced to remain talking to Arthur while Matthew hovered nearby. Matthew looked between Alfred and Arthur intently, and when Arthur looked up, he simply insisted that he wanted to make sure that the former kind was treated properly.

  
 

Alfred knew the Matthew was lying. He was sure that Matthew was interested in the little kid, and maybe hoped that Alfred would stop bothering Arthur since he was preoccupied with a kid. Or something like that. Alfred wanted to protest outright that some little kid wasn't about to distract him from the conversation, except that the kid kinda _was_ distracting him.

  
 

“When did you have... it?” Alfred blurted out, and Arthur looked over at him. Matthew frowned and left, obviously uninterested in where the conversation was headed. Arthur stared at Alfred for a moment, then he looked down at the bundle in his arms. He looked at Alfred once more, and chuckled.

  
 

“I think you're missing something,” Arthur said. The bundle in his arms reached out, and Alfred stared at the pale hands and forearms that grabbed at Arthur's coat. “Chelles and I aren't... We're not married. She was simply watching him for me.” Arthur pulled aside the blanket on the child's head, and Alfred froze. The cookie Alfred had grabbed from the table fell from his hand and broke into pieces when it hit the floor.

  
 

The child looked like an exact copy of Arthur, though he was obviously much younger. There was also the fact that he had long ears that hung to his shoulders and below, covered in dirty blond hair and looking very rabbit-like. Alfred recognized him, the child from the inn where they had first met Chelles. But-

  
 

“He died,” Alfred muttered. “I heard you.”

  
 

“You might've heard me hitting a table.” Arthur shrugged, and Alfred straightened in his chair and reached forward to take the boy from Arthur. “He had already grown too much. If I killed him, I wouldn't get anything back from him. He was already a separate person.”

  
 

Arthur fell silent, and Alfred played with the child's hands. Alfred played with the child's ears, ignoring his glares and pouts. The child grabbed at Alfred's hands as though to push him away, but Alfred refused to stop petting and tugging on his ears. “What part of you was he?”

  
 

“My magic.”

  
 

Alfred looked up quickly, and Arthur grabbed a biscuit from the plate on the table. He slowly broke it into pieces, and sighed. “He was dying because I still had some of my magic. I had to give up the rest of it to keep him alive. Course, it kept the mage from synching our magic to control me, so I guess that was good.”

  
 

Alfred had stilled his hands, and he stared at the child behind him. Something struck him about it, simply by looking at the boy. The child had faced death simply be existing. Arthur had given up a major part of himself, his magic, his defining trait, so that a piece of him could live on as a real person, with a real life. The child glowered at him, and before Alfred could think of what his expression meant, his fingers were pulled into the child's mouth, and the boy clamped down with his teeth.

  
 

Alfred cursed, and Arthur laughed at him. The child refused to release his fingers, and Arthur picked at the broken biscuit before him.

  
 

“I don't want him to be stuck in a castle, or somewhere he can't go outside. He doesn't deserve that.”

  
 

Alfred had failed in removing the child's teeth from his hand, so he tried to ignore the slight pulsing in his fingers. He looked over the table at Arthur, who shrugged and kept eating his biscuits.

  
 

“We won't stay long,” Arthur told him. “We'll be on our way soon. We still have to find work or somewhere to s-”

  
 

“Stay here.” Alfred ignored Arthur's expression of disbelief, and he tried once again to remove the boy from his hand. “We could use some help around the farm. There're a lot of kids that come by, so he can make friends. You don't have to wander for a year either. You can just... Hang out and figure out what you wanna do.”

  
 

Arthur stared, and then looked towards the boy. Alfred waited for a response, but he had to push Arthur to get one. Arthur seemed almost unwilling to accept or decline, until Arthur held the boy up in the air and looked up at him. The boy laughed, and Alfred watched Arthur from the corner of his eye.

  
 

“What's his name?” Alfred asked. He was relieved when Arthur answered him, moving closer to make sure he could hear.

  
 

“Usa,” Arthur said, and from the way Arthur relaxed, Alfred could understand.

  
 

“Well, welcome to America, Usa.”


End file.
